


There Are No Gays in Football

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Explicit Sexual Content, Football | Soccer, Friendship, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Love, M/M, Queer Themes, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 212,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a deeply-closeted Arthur Pendragon finally earns a spot in Camelot's first XI, he's dead set on breaking records, not one of sport's last taboos. But life, like football, is a funny old game, and sometimes the only way up is <i>out.</i> Especially once he realises he's arse over tit for the new physio.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>A queer Arthurian tale of courage, love, and football.</i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Dressing Room

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNINGS:**
> 
> I've opted for minimal tags, else they'd be miles long and not necessarily representative of the story as a whole. If you are concerned about being triggered, please see the more extensive tags/warnings in the end notes. This was originally written and posted over _two years_ as a serial project in response to a kmm prompt. While it was tidied prior to repost, an executive decision was made to not try and turn it into anything it wasn't, i.e., to preserve the original narrative pacing and (intentionally) gratuitous _everything._ So fair warning that it may not be optimal to read in one go. (Take naps and wee breaks, at least, and get someone to bring you snacks.)
> 
> **DISCLAIMERS:**
> 
> I believe Arthurian legends belong to everyone, but the Ye Olde Medieval Pin-up version belongs to the BBC and Shine and "Wart" belongs to T. H. White. _Roy of the Rovers_ served as a horrible enabler. I was not born in the UK; I do not play professional football; nor am I a professional physiotherapist. Needless to say, many liberties have been taken—some out of ignorance, some for the sake of the narrative, and some for the sake of writing the change I want to see in the world. Any real persons/places/institutions/events referenced herein are used to give an AU Britain (ca. 2008-09) and a fictional football league recognisable landmarks within the modern sport and culture. No sensationalism or offence is intended. 
> 
> **LOVE:**
> 
> Dedicated to the anon op and all the other wonderful people at the meme who supported me and encouraged the repost, and to [Mizufae](http://mizufae.tumblr.com/post/1238939140/dear-readers), my Once and Future Beta Queen as well as this project's "Man of the Match." It's also down to her that this story has such gorgeous art and graphics, including a collaborative project with the fabulous [Alby_Mangroves!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Alby_Mangroves/pseuds/Alby_Mangroves) You two win all the things, as far as I am concerned. The official story art may be found and applauded [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/730009) and [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770369) Please give the artists love!

[ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/730009)

Coach was always telling them to leave things outside the dressing room. Differences in wages and playing time. Worries about parents and wives. Trouble with landlords and girlfriends. Attitude. Jealousies. Homesickness.

"Leave it son, just drop it," he'd say when Bors walked in with a thunderous face. 

"You're not in your mother's kitchen," he'd snap at a moping Gareth. "You'll get no tea and sympathy here."

Coach didn't mind them channelling their egos and emotions into their work on the pitch, as long as they didn't get carried away, but here, in the dressing room, they were expected to put the team first. 

Arthur had no problem with this. He _liked_ this sort of discipline, respected Coach for insisting on it. He'd played on teams before that were the exact opposite—the coach demanding perfect cohesion on the pitch whilst turning a blind eye to the chaos that went on once they were off it. It worked for local, pub league sides, lads who had grown up together and most of whom still lived with their mothers, but it was disaster at this level. There was too much ego, too much money at stake, too many intersections of difference. 

Myror's mum could have fit Elyan's entire village inside her back garden. Gwaine serially dated models in full view of the media, while Bors privately struggled to keep his five-year-old marriage to a sous chef from disintegrating like so much overcooked pasta.

Arthur was willing to bet that Lemmie and Geraint's cousins still threw rocks at one another's parades, armistice or no, and the lads Percy had grown up with would have kicked Arthur's teeth in if he'd strayed into their North Camelot neighbourhood—for more than one reason, as it happened. 

For Arthur did have a problem, and it wasn't something he'd neglected to leave outside the dressing room. Hell, he _couldn't_ leave it outside, even if he wanted to. (He'd tried, he really had, but apparently there was only so much denial a man was allowed, and he'd had his extra time and then some.) 

And maybe he could have gone on like that, smilingly keeping his own secrets, telling himself that work and mates were everything, smothering the part of himself that wanted something more. Smothering that part of himself that _wanted._

But sod's law was sod's law for a reason. So, of course, when the smothering failed and the embers ignited, it had happened not somewhere secluded and dimly-lit and conveniently far far away, but within the Citadel's painted cinderblock walls under the glare of fluorescent lighting.

* * *

_Arthur now felt like he was burning from the inside out from the effort of keeping himself in check. The emotions that threatened him were so overwhelming, so potentially disruptive. He lived every day in the fear that he would lose control of them out on the pitch—that he would run until his muscles seized up and yell until his lungs burst. That he would jump and slash and lunge, kick and twist and dive, commit a career-ending act of violence or an equally career-ending act of love._

_He could see it, had imagined it many times._

_He'd disentangle himself from the post-goal manpile and sprint to the touchline, seeking out the one bright face that eclipsed all the others in a sea of Camelot red. He'd grab him by the horrid floppy collar of his tracksuit top and haul him in 'til they were pressed together, top to toe. Then he would kiss him—kiss him with tongue and teeth and all—while the stands rocked with the sounds of victory. He would dare the fuckers to stop cheering._


	2. Derby Day

It all began the day of their home match against local rivals Mercia United.

(Not the being gay bit, obviously, but the first crack in Arthur's carefully cultivated, and closeted, professional existence. The spark that caught the embers, so to speak.)

Camelot FC were down by two at the half, the second goal conceded from a wrongfully awarded penalty. The whole squad was disgusted and verging on mutinous. Mercia were fourteen places beneath them in the table, they played unimaginative hoof-it-and-pray long ball, and they were a bunch of vicious diving twats. In short, they shouldn't have been able to _buy_ a derby win. 

As for Arthur, it was his fifth start since being brought up from the reserves, and he had yet to score. He wasn't sure how many more chances he'd get before being shuffled down the bench, owner's son or no. 

Coach did that thing where he just stood and looked each of them in the face in turn, one eyebrow hugging his hairline. No one dared look away. Coach was the type to pinch your ears if you didn't meet his eye. 

"I don't care what that near-sighted, whistle-happy cunt has done, lads, and neither should you," he said. "Do you know why? Because he can't lose this game for us, nor can he win it—only you can. If you still want to. Do you? Do you _want_ to win?"

Arthur joined most of the squad in a mumbled chorus of, "Yes, Coach," but Percy—the local hero, who claimed to have supported the club since he was a gleam in his old man's eye—shouted it. 

"Yes, Coach!" he roared, jumping up, fists clenched. And he kept on roaring until there was nothing for it but to jump up and roar along with him, gripping each other's shoulders and pogoing up and down.

* * *

Five minutes into the second half Arthur slotted one into the lower left corner of the net off a beautiful cross-field pass from Elyan, and the battle was on. 

Mercia didn't give up the attack, but Percy had taken enough shit for one day and was determined to keep his back line in order. They had help from Leon, their captain, who was all over the place like a fifth defender—blocking, tackling, stripping the ball from the opposing attack, then personally running the ball upfield if he didn't have a clear pass option. 

Arthur thought he'd never seen men so possessed of such a combination of fury and skill. (That's why he'd been so eager to break into the first team; he knew they'd help him score goals; they'd help him get noticed and take his career to a new level.)

When, with ten minutes to go in regulation, Leon arced a lovely ball up and over Arthur's head, Arthur ran onto it with purpose, streaking towards a gap in the defence, certain he was about to bag his second goal. But then there was a _whump_ and a _crunch_ and the next thing he knew he had a face full of grass.

He heard shouting and saw boots jogging towards him. The defender who'd taken him down leaned over and tried to haul him to his feet, growling, "Oh come on, princess. Get the fuck up, no need to milk it."

Arthur rolled away from him and sat up, trying to calm the rage that was welling up inside him. He was saved from doing something stupid by Gwaine, who was suddenly there, asking Arthur if he was all right, getting in the Mercian twat's face and telling him to belt the fuck up and back the hell off.

The ref arrived and, as he carded the protesting defender, Gwaine helped Arthur up with a wink and a, "Princess, eh? I like that. Might have to stencil it on your locker."

Arthur looked pointedly at Gwaine's hair and made a scissoring motion with his fingers. "Next time I have to room with you, Orkney. While you sleep. It won't be pretty." 

Gwaine clutched his ponytail in mock-horror. 

Then it was all business, Leon and Tristan jogging over to confer about the kick. Arthur's calf smarted (and he may have felt a niggling in his groin), but he shook off Tristan's offer to take it. He knew he was being selfish, but he had something to prove. 

Arthur sent the ball over the wall and curling into the net. In the celebratory pileup, Leon crowed, "I declare no more cracks about the boss's son. And next man scores gets a blowjob on me."

There were cheers and playful shoves all around. Arthur hoped no one noticed his gritted teeth and burning blush. Myror grinned. "I don't know, Leon. From who? Are we talking the kind of talent Gwaine pulls on a night out, a working girl… or your future wife?" 

There was a split second when Arthur thought either he or Leon might knock Myror's teeth in (Arthur was not particularly close to his half-sister, but he would defend her honour if need be), but then Leon laughed and the whole squad set to sniggering and suggesting the names of other wags, pop stars, and opposing team members. 

After Arthur suggested their mascot and Myror suggested the ref, they found their heads knocked against one another, Leon in both their faces, growling, "I don't much care. I'll do it myself so long as we win this." 

There was a chorus of groans as the team got back in position.

* * *

The squad must have been feeling pretty pent up, because they played those last ten minutes like it was a tournament final. The ball pinged back and forth from the centre to the wings, their midfield taunting the opposition, dancing away and passing at the last possible instant. 

Tristan, Myror and Arthur all had shots on; Gwaine sent one just over the bar. And then, near the end of the ninety, Leon made one of his tearing runs upfield. Two rattled defenders converged on him and, cool as you please, he chipped that ball up—up over the defenders, up over Arthur—that same damn ball as before, but this time there was no one nearby to scythe Arthur down. 

Arthur sucked wind and sprinted for it. Their left back did as well, but he had a lot more ground to cover and Arthur got there first. He nudged it away from the defender and shot for the far post, just like Coach had urged him to in training. The ball hit the upright and ricocheted into the net, past the feet of the stunned-looking keeper, who'd thought Arthur was going for the direct near-post shot and dived the wrong way. 

Arthur wheeled about, looking for his teammates, throwing his arms into the sky (hoping that his father was up there watching from behind the mirrored glass of the Gold Scale suite). He took a step towards Myror and Leon, who were rushing towards him with manic grins. Then the niggle in his groin _pinged,_ and burned, and just felt wrong. He sank to the ground frowning, thinking, _Oh fuck!_ and _Shit bloody buggering fuck!_ and _Please don't let it be serious as I've only just earned my starting spot._

And even though he was sure he walked off the field under his own steam (with all the attendant back-and-bum slapping, shirt-swapping, and cameras in his face), the next thing he remembered was a pair of incredibly blue eyes (set between a pair of incredibly large ears) looking down at him and a pair of incredibly dextrous hands (clad in blue nitrile gloves) sliding up the leg of his kit.

And all Arthur could think of to say, looking up at this gorgeous, dark-haired tangle of odd lines and surfaces who was _palpating his groin,_ for fuck's sake, was, "You're not Elena. Where's Elena?"


	3. Hat Trick

"Well good afternoon and hello to you too," the physio (who should have been Elena but wasn't) said, withdrawing his hands and turning away to scribble something on a clipboard. "I expect Elena is fetching the—oh, heya there, Ellie!—ice." 

Then there was a horrible screeching sound, which may have included the sound "Em!" at dangerous decibel levels, and Arthur was treated to the sight of Camelot's head physio—typically a low-key, no-nonsense, best-mates-until-you-cross-me kind of woman—putting on a display worthy of a groupie. She flung several icepacks down on the table between Arthur's legs and enveloped the blue-eyed stranger in an awkward, all-encompassing hug. 

"I heard they were bringing you in," she cried, "but I didn't realise it would be today. And what good timing, too! Wart here has only gone and done his adductors in style."

Elena released the stranger, who was blushing _and_ beaming (and Arthur thought it made him look a right idiot and was not at all endearing, no sir). 

"You know me, Ellie," he said with a wink. "The unhappy groins, they call to me. They whisper things."

"Oi," Arthur said, raising himself on his elbows, intent on reminding the two self-satisfied half-wits before him that his groin might or might not be whispering things, but wasn't going to ice itself, thank you very much. 

But just then Gwaine put his stubbly mug round the entryway. 

"Hey, Princess," he said. "I have your match ball. Thought I'd have to stove that cunt ref's teeth in to get it though. Tried to walk off with it, even though it was your—Emrys! Mate, since when do you work here?"

"Er, since Wednesday, actually, but I've been off on a refresher course."

Gwaine strode in, tossing the ball alongside the abandoned icepacks and plastering himself all over the stranger. Elena smiled and draped herself over the both of them with an added squeal, and Arthur felt very put out. Not to mention left out. He sat up, reached down and began collecting the icepacks, noisily clearing his throat.

He looked up to find the stranger's eyes locked on his over Gwaine's shoulder. Arthur shivered, and he was certain it didn't have anything to do with the ice.

The stranger disentangled himself. "What did he do to deserve that?" he said to Gwaine, nodding towards Arthur.

Gwaine looked puzzled. "Um, he scored a hat trick, mate. Em, you—what, a few months coddling swimmers and cyclists and you forget your roots?"

The stranger, Em, snorted as he returned to Arthur's side. He eased Arthur back down with a gentle hand to his shoulder and efficiently began arranging the icepacks around his inner thigh. "Not the match ball, Ken Doll, the injury."

Elena giggled. Gwaine scowled. Arthur decided this Em person wasn't such an idiot after all.

"No one's called me that since primary school, Emrys," Gwaine said in a furious whisper, checking the doorway behind him. 

Em shrugged, flicked his eyes up towards Gwaine, then winked—bloody _winked_ —at Arthur. Arthur saw a smirk blooming at the corner of his lips. His very generous, very pink—

"But it still riles you, doesn't it, you big stud," Em said, tucking a towel round the icepacks. He picked up the ball and settled it in Arthur's hands. "Ergo, still fun."

Elena burst out laughing, and even Arthur could not help but join in when he saw Gwaine's face. Unfortunately, this caused all his muscles to tense, which caused a burning pain in his groin.

"Owfuck," he said, wincing.

"Oh god. Gwaine, see what you've made me do? And I'm meant to be healing him!"

Arthur was sad to see the sly, playful expression disappear, but the genuine look of concern that replaced it was gratifying.

"Me? You're the one who—" Gwaine began, but then Percy and Leon were crowding into the small treatment room, the former still in his dirty kit, the latter dripping wet and clad only in a towel and shower slides. Percy had a solid grip on Leon's neck and was grinning like a madman. Leon looked apologetic.

"Wart! Mate! Leon has come to deliver!" Percy crowed.

Several things happened all at once. 

Elena stepped protectively in front of the table where Arthur lay. Gwaine made a hysterical half-wheezing, half-laughing sound. Em initially sprang back, but then the newcomers spotted him, and there were more choruses of "Em!" and "Merlin!" and another giant knot of hugging and back-slapping that didn't include Arthur and made him wonder why he seemed to be the only person in the entire footballing world who had never met this dark-haired, blue-eyed, inexplicably popular man before.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, four pairs of eyes were looking at him. 

Elena's were fond, Gwaine's were alarmed, Percy's were (still) adorably eager, and Leon's were sheepish. The new bloke—Em or Emrys or Merlin or whatever his name was—had his back to Arthur and was saying, "… deliver whatever it is and get the hell out. He needs peace and I need to sort the paperwork before we take him for scans. Elena, can't you control the beasts?"

"Um," Leon said.

"Er," added Gwaine.

"You heard the man," Elena chirped, bumping Gwaine's hip with her own. "Out, beasts."

Percy was still grinning, oblivious. "Well go on then, Captain, open up for our Wart. Give him what you promised."

"Percy, I don't think—" Leon said, pinching the bridge of his nose, just as Em said, "What, exactly, are you so keen on giving him?" 

Percy, bless his thick skull, didn't sense a jot of tension in the room. "Blowjob!" he said triumphantly. "Big sloppy hummer for our Wart from Captain Cocksucker here!" Then he burst out laughing.

Arthur winced again, but this time not from the pain in his groin. He felt his face burning. His hands, still holding the match ball, felt enormous and weighty.

"All right, you've had your fun my friends," Em said. He sounded jovial enough, but Arthur noticed that he was standing stiffly, hands clenched at his sides. "Out you get. Ellie, will you give Doctor Tally the heads-up? I'd like him to confirm what I've felt with an ultrasound."

* * *

When they'd all gone, Em took a deep breath. Then, as if they'd known each other their whole lives and there was no possible awkwardness between them (up to and including casual references to cocksucking), he patted Arthur's shoulder, plucked the match ball from his hands, and set it on the other treatment table. He glanced at his wristwatch, then whisked off the towel and began flipping the icepacks that had been warmed by Arthur's skin.

"So, what did happen?" he said. "Did it come on out of the blue, or were you nursing a twinge and honour and glory got the best of you?"

Arthur stared into the man's eyes, tried to focus on his words, but in a sudden, horrible mashed-up moment all he could see was Em's beautiful mouth and all he could hear was Percy's voice saying, "Cocksucker." He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, felt flushed from head to toe regardless of the icepacks and all he could think was: _This must be the gay panic those websites warned about._

"Hey," Em said, pausing in his ministrations. "Hey, you all right there?" His forehead puckered. He stripped off one glove, reached up and placed the back of his hand on Arthur's forehead. It burned like a brand.

Arthur closed his eyes. 

When he opened them, there was a long, long moment when he wasn't sure where to look or what to do or even who he was anymore, but eventually those eyes, that hand, pulled him back into himself. He focused on Em's face. 

"I'm," he croaked. _I'm gay and I've never and I've hidden it all my life but you're the best thing I've seen since forever and I'm so sorry but I can't stop thinking about your mouth on my cock,_ his brain supplied. But his mouth said, "I'm only nervous. Got a lot riding on this season, can't afford to fuck it up."

Em had a strange look on his face, and Arthur worried that his brain had somehow managed to make itself clear without the aid of his mouth, but Em calmly withdrew his hand, patted Arthur's thigh and said, "We'll have to see what Doctor Tally says, but in my experience, with your full participation, it's a week to ten days out at most. And my magic hands are the worst you'll have to suffer." 

"Magic… what?" Arthur choked out.

"Hands," Em said, holding the very things up and wiggling his fingers with an apologetic grin. "Therapeutic sport massage. That's why your mates call me Merlin. I specialise in injury recovery and prevention."

"Ah." Arthur said. "And you're going to be…?" He gestured lamely from Em's hands to his groin, then realised the possible alternate reading of the gesture and swiftly retracted his hand, fisting it in the fabric of his shorts.

"In charge of your day-to-day treatment, yes." Em's eyes were verging on sparkling. He lowered them and placed his fingertips on the edge of the treatment table. Then he looked up from beneath heavy lids and a black backroom fuck-curtain of lashes (and what was wrong with him that he was comparing a physio's eyelashes to things he'd only seen in pornos, Arthur wondered) and said, "Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," Arthur said, thinking, _Yesyesyes,_ all the while seeing his dreams of a league title and a Golden Boot and Europe and possibly playing for England at the senior level swirling away like so much dirty bathwater down the drain, because, as everyone knew, there were no gays in football. Not since Fashanu had hung himself in '98.


	4. Playing Away

In the weeks that followed, Arthur tried. He really, really tried. 

He came in early and stayed late. He submitted to the regimen of massage and heating before training, icing (and more massage) after. He stuck to the meals provided at the club's training ground, ate bland chicken and pasta-based suppers at home and avoided alcohol, even though all he longed for was rare beef, aged cheese, a large bag of smoky bacon crisps and a giant ale-based piss-up that would hopefully leave him unconscious.

But he also racked up more miserable hours in front of his computer than he had in the past two months, staring at porn that he no longer bothered telling himself didn't turn him on, but that he couldn't quite get off to. 

And not just because his tender groin made vigorous wanking painful. Every mouth he saw, sliding slickwet down some anonymous shaft—every pale cheek or shoulder or finger or arse—made him wonder about Em: Em who looked completely daft in his prescribed work gear of khakis and club-crested polo, but who never failed to render Arthur speechless when he flashed his first honest grin of the day; Em who let out a little grunt when he had to clamber onto the treatment table to press Arthur's knee to his chest; Em whose eyes were fickle but whose hands were sure. There were days when Arthur felt like those hands were the only things holding him together, like he didn't actually _have_ legs until Em stroked and kneaded them, moulding them, bringing them to life.

All of it—the discipline, the denial and the late nights—took a toll. When Arthur resumed full training with the first team, his performance was erratic, his concentration shattered. The squad were massive about it, still high off their recent good form and well understanding the lingering hell of groin injuries, but that only made it all the worse for Arthur.

His first match back he was sent on in the second half, did nothing much except stay upright and jog ineffectually after balls that he hadn't a nun's chance of winning, and was yanked off in the seventieth minute. 

Coach gave him the full eyebrow treatment, gripped his elbow as he made his way to his seat and hissed, "Sort it out, Pendragon."

Arthur nodded dumbly and took a swig from a water bottle because his mind was a complete buzzing blank and he had no idea what to say.

"And don't insult me by pretending it's your leg," Coach added. "Doctor Tally gave you the all clear, and Emrys assures me you're perfectly fit."

Arthur choked, spraying half the water out his nose. The rest dribbled down his chin.

Coach's eyes widened. Someone threw a towel and, as Arthur mopped his face, Coach leaned in and said, "Son, I'm not asking and I don't want to know. But if you need somebody to speak to, go see Doctor Kilgary." 

Arthur took his seat, red-faced, with his stomach in his boots. He was doomed. If that hadn't been completely clear before, it was _crystal_ now. Dr. Kilgary was a leathery old coot who had been at Camelot FC since the dawn of time. He'd taken on every role from boot boy to club psychologist. Even Arthur's father, who had insisted on a thorough scouring of the backroom staff when he'd bought the club, hadn't dared oust Dr. Kilgary.

There were rumours he lived in a bunker beneath the pitch at the Citadel, connected by wartime tunnels to the Knightswood training complex. There were rumours that the club mascot, Gary the Gold Dragon, was named after him. There were rumours that he wasn't a even a real doctor, that the advice he doled out was gleaned from back issues of _Roy of the Rovers_ and fortune cookies from the takeaway down the road.

In short, no one consulted Dr. Kilgary unless there was absolutely no other option. 

Which was why Arthur found himself a good hour's train ride distant from the Citadel that Saturday night, backed up against the ground-floor bar of a pulsing three-storey gay club, head sweltering under a beanie hat and barely able to see a thing through his aviator sunglasses.

* * *

He'd had his bum groped and pinched countless times; he'd had, "Hey mate," and, "Hiya buddy," and a host of more filthy things spit-shouted in his ears over the pounding music. 

He'd been looked over top to tail, smiled at, asked to dance, asked for a fag, offered suspicious substances and nearly slipped on what he thought might have been an honest-to-god puddle of cum on his way back from the toilets. 

Arthur was terrified (and maybe a bit shocked, for all the porn and _Queer as Folk_ he'd watched), but he couldn't stop smiling, because no siren had sounded when he'd handed over his twenty quid at the door. No spotlight had fastened on him as he'd emerged from the cloakroom. The music hadn't stopped. The swaying, bouncing mass on the dance floor hadn't ground to a halt. The DJ hadn't announced that Camelot's new number nine was in their midst and, "Oh by the way, he's queer—so three cheers, boys, and whip out your phones for a souvenir you'll never forget!"

_No one recognises me,_ Arthur realised.

Here, he wasn't Uther Pendragon's son. He was just another piece of meat in a tight shirt and trousers, just another potential lay or date or dance partner. It was _brilliant._

Sure, the music was crap, the beer American and over-priced, but together they eased the tightness in Arthur's chest and created a warm hum in his belly. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt like he had possibilities.

He took a swig from the bottle, tilted his head down, and peered over the top of his sunglasses. A flash of emerald green caught his eye.

There he was, the dark-haired bloke who'd brushed past Arthur earlier as he'd made his way down the stairs. He was leaning against a pillar a few yards away, nursing a cocktail roughly the same colour as his shirt. He had a mysterious smile on his face, and he was most definitely staring at Arthur. 

Arthur's pulse raced. 

He was on the short side, his mouth nowhere near as generous as Em's, but he had the same colouring, and there was no denying he was attractive. He might be exactly what Arthur needed to fix himself, to temper this bloody _obsession_ so he could get back to his normal life.

So, when the stranger made a little gesture with his head and slipped round the back of the pillar, Arthur downed the rest of his beer, pushed off the bar and went towards him. Up close, his eyes were even more unsettling. But the way he was looking at Arthur—like he was he was some sort of prize—was unmistakably sexual, and that felt really fucking _good._

"Hey there," the man said.

"Hey yourself," Arthur replied, confident that, by this point in the evening, he had this part of the banter down.

"Having a nice night?"

"It's alright."

"Just all right? I'm sorry to hear that." The man took a slow sip of his drink, pink lips parting to admit the rim of the glass. Arthur couldn't look away. "Stud like you in a place like this, you should be pulling left and right." He reached out with his free hand and scraped his fingernails lightly across Arthur's wrist. "Unless you're after something a little less… ordinary?"

Arthur shivered, taken off guard, and the man smirked. It made him look a bit of a cunt, but Arthur was already half-hard and the genius thing about gay club banter (as he'd discovered this evening) was that at any moment you could move the conversation from inane pleasantries to, "So how 'bout my cock and your mouth get better acquainted?" without getting your head stoved in. If you weren't interested, you just shook your head, said some version of, "Sorry, mate, not tonight," and everyone parted, faces intact and with little time wasted. Gwaine would never believe it.

Arthur rocked forward on the balls of his feet, inhaling the stranger's cologne. He was ready to do this. "What say you—"

"Gary, mate, there you are!"

A sweaty flail of limbs came out of nowhere, crashing into Arthur's side. An arm snaked round his shoulders. Arthur's new friend jumped back, hissing in displeasure when some of his drink slopped over the rim of the glass.

"What the bloody—Em?!" 

Arthur could hardly believe his eyes. It was Em, but an Em that he'd never seen before, save in his soiled imagination. 

His white dress shirt clung to his torso, sleeves rolled up and collar gaping open, revealing a cotton vest underneath. His trousers were dark and tight, his boots had more buckles on them than could possibly be necessary in the twenty-first century, and his hair was gelled into little peaks and dales. It was possible, just possible, that he was wearing _lip gloss._

Arthur had never found himself particularly attracted to overtly girly men, but just seeing this one small difference between public daytime Em and private nighttime Em—just imagining the ritual of him standing before a mirror, dipping one long finger in the pot and smearing the gloss over his lips before going out— _did things_ to Arthur's cock. 

"We've been looking for you all over, _Gary._ Freya's worried sick."

"What?" Arthur said again, miles away. "Em, I—"

"Apologies about Gary here," Emrys rushed on, finally acknowledging the dark-haired stranger. He produced a bar napkin out of thin air and handed it to him. "He's my cousin from out of town. Tourist," he said, mouthing the word in exaggerated fashion. The stranger's eyes narrowed. "Just showing him and his girlfriend a bit of my fabulous rainbow world, you know how it goes." 

"I see," the stranger said, his face now uncertain. "My mistake."

Em began tugging on Arthur's neck, dragging him away. "Bloody straight boys, eh? Can't take them anywhere. Always wandering off after shiny things. I hope he didn't talk your ear off. Gary. My cousin."

Arthur's head was spinning. He let himself be manhandled through the dancing crowd, up the stairs, and into one of the semi-circular booths that ringed the perimeter of the first floor gallery. 

Em shoved at him until he scooted all the way into the centre, next to a dark-haired girl who looked dressed for combat manoeuvres and was rapidly emptying a gigantic fruit-and-cocktail-umbrella-adorned glass with a pink straw.

She released the straw with an obscene _pop_ and turned towards Arthur. He saw that one side of her head was shaved bald.

"Close call?"

Em slumped back into the cushions, rubbing at his forehead. "Yeah. Christ, Arthur, don't you know who that is? What am I saying—no, of course you don't, or you wouldn't have been chatting him up. Mate, that is _Mordred."_

"Mordred?"

Em turned towards Arthur. "Yes, Mordred, _the_ Mordred. Vicious little habit of outing celebrities, work frequently appears in _The Sun?_ Surely you've been warned?" 

Arthur shook his head. A numbness took up residence behind his eyeballs and began to spread. He had visions of his father spreading marmalade on a piece of toast, smacking the bum of whatever tart he'd taken up with that week with the rolled-up paper and then unrolling it, glancing down to see his one and only son's grainy image plastered across the front page under ugly words in stark black and white and red.

"I can't believe they still let him in here after what he did to Dinadan," Em went on. "Give us a sip, pet. I need something to calm my nerves."

Freya shrugged, sliding the glass across the table. "High turnover on the doors. Plus the man's a chameleon; Em, I think you're one of the few people who'd recognise him when he's not in a wig. You should go grass."

"Not tonight." Em ignored the straw and took a big slug directly from the glass, narrowly avoiding having his eye poked out by an umbrella-clad chunk of pineapple. "Or, at least, not until we get him out of here."

"Ah, right," Freya said bitterly. She held a finger up in front of her lips and mouthed, "Must. Keep. Gay. Secret." 

"Hush, don't be rude. Having a private life is hard for someone in his position. And now really isn't the time to discuss this." He set the glass down and wiped his mouth. "We need an escape plan. Arthur, did you come with somebody, or are you on your own? Arthur?"

Arthur, trying to ignore the spreading numbness (it had reached his shoulders by now), focused instead on the lone strawberry left in the glass. It had slid off the toothpick end of its umbrella. It was covered in pink foam and was now sliding helplessly down the inside of the glass.

"Own," Arthur said, feeling a keen sense of kinship with the strawberry.

"Okay. Give us your cloakroom token. Freya will fetch our stuff—don't give me that look, Miss Fierce, I'm not leaving him alone here with you; plus Mordred's seen me with him, and he might still be lurking about."

Arthur dug through his pockets without taking his eyes off the strawberry and handed over the rectangular piece of plastic. Em took it from him, rooted around in his own pockets, and dumped both tokens in Freya's upturned hand.

Before she stomped off, Freya leaned down, snagged the glass, and slurped the remaining liquid up through the straw. The strawberry was left high and dry, clinging to the side of the glass alongside a section of citrus fruit.

As soon as Freya was gone, Em scooted closer and bent his head towards Arthur. 

"You have a car, or…?" 

Arthur shook his head. "Train. Then taxi. Then on foot." In a flat voice he explained how he'd had the driver drop him off several streets away, round the corner from a trendy restaurant famous for its scantily clad female bartenders.

"Wow. That's quite the sneaky plan. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

Arthur risked a glance at Em and saw that he was biting his lower lip, tapping one forefinger against it. He decided to check back in with the cocktail flotsam. It was as he'd last seen it. 

The numbness, however, had spread down through his torso. He wondered if he could just stay here for the rest of his life, a booth hermit in the dim recesses of a commercial gay club, living off cocktail fruit and the odd packet of crisps.

"Except, Arthur, if you don't mind my saying, the whole look you're sporting there," Em tapped the bridge of Arthur's sunglasses, "simply screams, 'I'm a celebrity out on the down low.' Or, at the very least, 'I want everyone to think I'm a celebrity out on the down low.' Either way, fastest route to someone calling the paps. Classic beginner's mistake, mate. What were you thinking?"

Arthur reached up with shaking hands, removed the aviators and dropped them on the table. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the spot between them. 

When he opened his eyes, Em was watching him, head tilted to one side. He _was_ wearing lip gloss. This close, Arthur could smell his soap, the mineral tang of his hair gel and the rum and pineapple on his breath. 

"I," Arthur began. Then it all hit him: the horrible driving beat and his own beer sweat; how far away he was from everything he knew; how close he had come (and still might) to utter disaster; the burning gratitude for being rescued by Em, of all people; the burning shame for failing, for wishing Em _was_ some kooky wizard who could send him back to his sterile, straight flat with an _Abracadabra_ and a flick of his wrist.

His throat felt thick; his eyes grew moist. He sucked air into his lungs, shaking his head, thinking, _I am not going to cry, godfuckingdammit._

"Arthur?" Em looked concerned now. He placed a tentative hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"I _am_ … I am a beginner," he said, swallowing hard. "I've never." Then the tears were spilling down his cheeks and he turned away, hiding his face with his hands. 

Em made a strangled sound.

"Jaysusfuck," he said. "Jaysus bloody fuck. Oh, Arthur, this was your first time coming out? To the clubs, I mean?"

Arthur nodded, still covering his face. "I can't believe I was so stupid."

"Oh, hey," Em said, stroking Arthur's arm. "Hey, it's okay. It _will_ be okay, I promise." 

He pulled Arthur into a sort of sideways hug, gently removing Arthur's hands from his face, patting his chest and stroking the nape of his neck. "Hey, my friend, easy there. I'm going to get you home. Make you a cuppa, have a good chat, alright?" 

By this point Em's touch was so familiar that Arthur automatically melted into it. He could feel his heart rate slow, his entire body quieting and giving itself over to the outside stimulus. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah alright."

"Good." Em grasped the back of his neck and gave it a shake. "But one thing at a time, eh? First we have to scarper without being spotted. You up for that?"

Arthur sighed and nodded (wishing Em wouldn't let him go).

By the time Freya returned with their coats, Arthur had wiped his face with bar napkins and replaced his aviators. She wasn't fooled.

"Holy knickers, Em, what did you do to him while I was away?" She dumped a pile of coats on the table. "Tell him you're actually a brutal kinky top and ruin all his closeted wank fantasies?"

"Freya!" Em cried. 

Arthur was very glad he had his sunglasses on, because they no doubt hid his bug-eyes, but there was nothing he could do about his jaw. He felt a bit like a codfish.

Em scrambled out of the booth, grabbed Freya's shoulder and began whispering furiously in her ear. Arthur pulled his old peacoat from the pile, shrugged into it and began doing up the buttons in an effort to distract himself from thoughts of Em (kind, calm, lip-gloss-wearing Em) striding into the treatment room in nothing but jackboots and leather hotpants, pressing both of Arthur's knees to his chest and smacking him across the backs of his thighs with a riding crop.

Arthur missed a buttonhole and had to start all over again.

By the time Em finished speaking (and Arthur finally had his coat done up properly), Freya was looking at him with something like grudging admiration. She shook her head, her half-a-head of hair shimmering in the flashing club lights. 

"You're a brave bastard," she said, tossing him a navy blue rain bonnet. "Stupid, but brave. Here, give me your hat and put this on. Mordred's just headed for the bog, so we should be good to go. Where _are_ we going, by the way?"

Em looked at Arthur. "Station?" he said. "I'll come with, like I said."

Freya laughed. "Do you even realise what time it is, you two? Early Sunday morning, that's what. There are no trains to Camelot for hours yet. Try again."

"I'll get a taxi," Arthur blurted. "It's no trouble. I have plenty of cash." He couldn't believe that in all his careful planning regarding everything from his route to his disguise to what he would say if he saw someone he knew, he had failed to think about how he would get _home_. He had a feeling Dr. Kilgary would have something ominous to say about that. 

"Hush, Arthur, don't be daft," Em said quietly. "That would be well over a hundred quid. You can stay at ours and get the train in later."

And though a hundred quid was pocket change to someone on Arthur's salary, and Em had to know that, the only word Arthur really heard—in some ways the only word he'd been wanting to hear all evening—was the word "stay." 

It had him nodding like a bobblehead, smiling, saying, "Sure. Thanks, mate. I really appreciate it."

Freya rolled her eyes. She made grabby-hands towards Arthur's beanie hat and, once she'd snugged it onto her head, announced, "I think I'll head over to Gwen's. She's probably ripe for a rat-arsed curry and crochet-a-thon. Don't wait up."


	5. Team Talk

Em, Arthur discovered, lived mere blocks away from the club in an ornate Victorian corn exchange that had been converted to flats. For the first time, Arthur understood what Morgana had meant when she complained that his luxury tower block unit "lacked personality."

Arthur stood awkwardly in the entry hall, trying not to stare at all the photographs and bric-a-brac mounted on the walls, while Em and Freya bickered good-naturedly about where she'd left her crochet hooks. 

At last she was off, kissing Em on the cheek and patting Arthur's arm, saying, "Hands off the Shreddies, Jackie O. If I'm not home for breakfast."

"What?" Arthur said, flustered. He turned to Em. "Was that some sort of code?"

Em chuckled. He locked the door after Freya, then grabbed Arthur by the hand and led him past a row of pegs groaning with various jackets, hoodies, and scarves. He pushed him into a little alcove hung with a full-length mirror. 

"Behold," Em said, gesturing at Arthur's reflection. "I must say, I'd go with Queen Mum over Jackie O, but I can see where Freya was coming from. Probably all that navy."

"Oh my god," Arthur said, laughing. He took off the aviators and shoved them in a pocket. Then he began clawing at the rain bonnet's ties. Freya had done some complex wrapping and knotting before she'd approved him to walk the gauntlet on the way out of the club. "She's a mad bastard."

"At times, yes," Em said. "But the point here was to cover more of your face and make you look like a bit of a queen, albeit one having an off night. It's impolite to stare if a queen is having an off night. True gay fact. Here, turn around and let me help."

Arthur dropped his hands and faced Em, angling his chin in the air so Em could get at the ties. He pretended this was just another treatment procedure, pretended Em's warm breath and cool fingers on his skin (and all the smells and textures and the fact that he was _in Em's flat)_ weren't torturing whatever remained of his sanity. 

"But no one recognised me," Arthur said feebly, once Em had whisked off the bonnet.

_"I_ recognised you, Arthur. From the minute you walked in. And Mordred thought he did—or at least he thought you might be worth recognising." 

Em flung the bonnet back towards the pegs. "Give us your coat then. There's an art to draping them so the whole lot don't come down. I'm on a record six weeks now. Freya can only manage three, and Will—our other flatmate, away on business—can't even manage two days." Em grinned.

Arthur removed his coat and handed it over, mind racing.

"Wait, from the minute I—how? And why didn't you say something earlier?" Arthur's temper began to spark. Had Em and that mad cow just been sitting there the whole time, laughing at him, debating whether or not to save him from public humiliation?

Em's smile faded. He walked back and deftly added their coats to the precarious arrangement of fabric hanging in the entryway. On his return, he passed Arthur without a word, continuing through into the living room. Arthur trailed after him, feeling somehow aggrieved and wrong-footed at the same time.

"Em?"

Em flung himself down on an overstuffed chocolate-coloured sofa, limbs splayed wide. He met Arthur's eyes and nodded towards a nubby blue armchair that sat at an angle to it. Arthur sank down, suddenly realising how bloody _tired_ he was. 

"Arthur, I'm a physiotherapist. I'm trained to notice people's bodies, analyse how they move them. And, in case it has slipped your notice, I've spent the last two weeks working with you. Watching you. Of _course_ I recognised you."

"Oh." No, it had not slipped his notice. That was precisely the problem, wasn't it?

"But, to put your mind at ease, I doubt many others could have done so, unless they've been stalking your clips on YouTube or something." Em gave him a little smile. "Not that that disguise did you any favours, as I said. And your nose is rather—"

"Hey!"

"… um, majestic."

"Majestic?"

"Yes, majestic. As in impressive, magnificent, regal, grandiose—oh, what am I saying? Come on, Arthur, you know you're… you're…"

Arthur leaned forward. "I'm what?"

Em thrust his hands into his hair, then frowned and withdrew them. "Ugh, bloody hair gel. I don't know why I let that woman treat me like one of her mannequin heads."

"I'm what?" Arthur repeated, refusing to be distracted.

Em stood abruptly. He pointed one long finger at Arthur. "Tea, I promised you tea. And sympathy. And maybe even some big gay advice, though Freya's better with that sort of thing; I'll check her room for pamphlets. But, first, I'm going to shower. Can't do proper sympathy and big gay advice with crispy hair."

"Em," Arthur said, putting on the whiny voice he only ever used to annoy Morgana. "Go on, tell me. What am I?"

Em made a strangled noise and threw his hands in the air. "You're… well, let's just say you're _distinctive looking,_ Arthur, alright?"

Arthur sat back, smug. Then he remembered something. "So why didn't you come find me earlier? Say hello. Warn me that journos were about, that sort of thing."

"Honestly?"

Arthur nodded. 

"I thought you were just another closet case playing away on the sly, mate. I've seen it before. And most pros don't appreciate running into people from work in that situation." Em shrugged. "And I'm… Well, I don't exactly keep my sexuality a secret, but I try to keep my professional and personal lives separate. I _love_ what I do, Arthur. And I love football, but I know who runs the show. I know the old terrace attitudes are still out there. So when I see athletes I know, or they see me…" Em made another aborted attempt to run his fingers through his hair, scowled. "If they freak out, then that's their problem. If they bring it up after, I'm friendly about it. I make it clear that I'd never say a word."

"What do you mean, you've seen it before?" Arthur said, incredulous.

Em burst out laughing. "You can't seriously expect me to believe that you thought you were the only gay in the footballing village?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his shoes, face burning.

"Christ, you did! Arthur, mate, but how? Surely you know… and you must have discussed it with your agent, right? Not that he's going to name names, but surely he told you that there were others, discussed your options for how you wanted to handle things? Offered to get in some rent boys from lands still ignorant of the glorious Pendragon name?"

Arthur sprang up from the chair. "Why on earth would I tell my agent that I'm gay?" he shouted. "That would be professional suicide. No one knows. Not my agent, not my father, not my mates, not _anyone._ I—"

Arthur clapped a hand over his mouth. Removed it. Gestured helplessly at Em. "I tried telling you before," he said. "This was my first time. Not just in a club, but doing anything—well _trying_ to do anything—with another man. I've _never_ … I've only watched… um, videos and stuff. By myself."

Em watched Arthur for a long moment, then started pacing furiously in front of the sofa, muttering to himself. Arthur thought he heard him invoke a variety of deities, not all of them Christian.

"Arthur, that's—" he said at last. He launched himself at Arthur's chest, enfolding him in a full-body hug. "That's fucked up, is what that is, my friend," he said, squeezing. "But no matter. You've told _me_ now. And Freya, indirectly. And I may be the worst gay mentor ever, but I do know that that is an important step."

Arthur's arms were pinned at the shoulders, but he tentatively raised his forearms and placed his hands on Em's waist. He dropped his forehead onto Em's shoulder. He inhaled, burrowing his head in closer to Em's open collar, to the heat and scent of his skin.

"I don't know," he murmured. "I think you're doing a pretty decent job of it so far." 

"Oh, that," Em said, pulling away slightly. His cheeks were flushed. "That tickles," he said. "Um."

For one glorious moment Arthur thought Em might kiss him.

But then he was stepping back, practically falling over the coffee table in his haste to back away. "Yes, well," he said, smile a bit too wide for Arthur to think it genuine. "On to step two then, right?"

"Step two?"

"Getting you some action, of course," Em said brightly. "Tricky in your position, but you were on the right track. Anonymous club encounter might be the easiest pick-up, but it can be risky, as you now know." He tilted his head, shook it pityingly. "Seriously mate, of all the talent throwing itself at you all night, you decide to go for that lethal little shit Mordred? Bad instincts. It's a good thing I was… um, that Freya spotted him clocking you on her way back from the bar. Are you sure your agent doesn't have high-end rent boys on speed-dial?"

Arthur's temper returned full force. "Stop it!" he yelled. "Don't say things like that. That's sick. I wasn't… I just wanted my cock sucked, alright? Let off a little steam." He turned away, sank back down into the armchair with his head in his hands. 

"And I'd never… I don't want to pay some stranger to fuck me, understand?"

Arthur heard a squeak. He peered up to find Em with his knuckles stuffed in his mouth, eyes open wide.

"Sorry," Arthur said gruffly. "But I don't. And no amount of gay mentoring is going to change that."

Em took his hand out of his mouth, shook his head. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. "Really, you've nothing to apologise for. I shouldn't have been so flippant. I told you I'm crap at this."

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "S'okay. And I still shouldn't have shouted. It's not like you asked me to come blundering into your local with all my issues."

They regarded one another warily for a moment, Arthur's heart sinking because none of his fantasies about this man had included screaming at him like a fishwife in his own living room.

Em took a deep breath. "No," he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Big Gay Crisis night is definitely on Tuesdays. Tea?"

Arthur let out a grudging laugh. "Tea would be good." He stood and followed Em to the kitchen. 

"Actually, if you show me where the things are, I'll make it. You said you wanted a shower."

Em, rummaging in a drawer, looked back over his shoulder at Arthur. He looked genuinely surprised at Arthur's offer, his lips parting in a pleased half-smile. 

"Yeah? Okay. That'd be… that'd be nice." He bustled around the kitchen, pointing to various cupboards and drawers. "I won't be long," he said, slipping around the corner of the breakfast bar and disappearing down the hall.

Arthur filled the kettle and plugged it in. He braced his hands on the worktop.

Em reappeared, boots in one hand and a fistful of papers held triumphantly in the other. "I knew she'd have pamphlets. Here," he said, plonking them down on the worktop in front of Arthur, "educate yourself." He positioned the boots lovingly on a low rack near the entryway and padded back down the hall.

* * *

The next two hours were the most surreal of Arthur's life since the day when, aged eleven, he had left his preparatory, moved into the dormitory at the academy school, and devoted his entire waking life to football. 

Mercifully, Em did not bring the pamphlets up again (glancing through them, Arthur had seen everything from advice on suicide prevention to a manifesto on "Troubling the Queer Narrative," whatever that meant, and a graphic flyer for the Dykes with Pikes Re-enactment Society). 

Instead, he encouraged Arthur to talk about himself, picking up threads of conversations they'd had over the past two weeks. They spoke about films, video games and music, Gwaine's past and present exploits—Em and Gwaine had grown up only a few streets apart—and even a bit about how the league was shaping up. 

Every now and again Em would slip something in about an actor he fancied, or a holiday he'd been on that had obviously included swarms of tanned Spaniards and buckets of sangria.

At first Arthur wondered if Em was testing him, seeing if he would freak out again. Soon, however, he relaxed. Because, no, this was just Em talking to Arthur openly, as himself—as a gay man, with nothing to hide and no agenda, who knew that Arthur was gay and honestly didn't think it was that big a deal. 

Arthur was pathetically grateful for this. At the same time, it made him want to kick himself in the shins. Without shin pads. Because everyone knew that the last, absolute _last_ thing you wanted to do when you fancied someone was end up relegated to the friend pile. 

And as he watched Em talk, hands animated and eyes sparkling, freshly washed hair curling around his ears, the lean lines of his body plainly visible through the thin T-shirt and scrub pants he evidently wore as pyjamas, Arthur realised that that was exactly what had happened. 

In the space of one evening, he had not only failed to get his cock sucked and almost outed himself to the rags, but—upon being presented with a golden, in-the-flesh opportunity to seduce his current wank fantasy—had proceeded instead to cry, shout at him, and admit he was a big ignorant gay virgin. Then he'd curled up with him on the sofa for a cuppa like bloody housewives on the telly. In short, he was deep, deep in the friend pile, and could not see a way out.

Despair compounded Arthur's exhaustion. He yawned, stretching his arms up over his head and clearly startling Em.

"Oh, wow, it's late. Should probably get some rest." Em pushed up off the sofa. "You're welcome to sleep in Will's bed—there's clean linens on—or out here, whichever you prefer."

"He doesn't mind?"

"Nah. He's almost never here anyway. Consultant. It's more like the guest suite."

"Still, that's…" Arthur wondered if Will was _strictly_ a flatmate. "I'll be fine out here. This sofa is nicer than my own bed."

Em smiled. "That's what Freya says. She'll be devastated to find she actually has something in common with you."

Arthur chuckled, but it turned into another yawn.

"I'll fetch you a blanket and pillow. Toilet's through there. There's a stash of new toothbrushes in the basket under the sink."

Em must have seen Arthur's expression, because he added. "Not mine. Freya has a lot of sleepovers. In my experience, lesbians have a thing for dental hygiene."

"Misplaced oral fixation?" Arthur said.

Em cackled. "Mate, I would _not_ say that to her face."

Arthur washed his face and brushed his teeth, stripped out of the tight blue shirt and grey trousers he'd chosen for his big gay debut. As he took a piss, he looked down at his cock and sighed, silently apologising to it for making false promises. 

By the time he returned to the living room, there was a pillow and blanket sitting on one end of the sofa. Em was in the kitchen, his back to Arthur, rinsing the cups. 

Arthur lay down, punched the pillow in, and spread the blanket over himself. There was a clink and a soft thud, then the lights went out in the kitchen. Em passed behind the couch, trailing one hand along the back, and doused the living room lights. 

But he didn't move away. Arthur could hear his breathing in the darkness.

"Hey, Arthur?"

Arthur rolled over, raised himself on one elbow. "Yeah?"

"If you… that is to say, are we going to be all right on Monday?"

"On Monday?"

Em huffed out a breath. "At Knightswood. For training. If it's going to be uncomfortable for you, I can have Elena do the manipulations and the massage."

Arthur reached up and groped along the back of the sofa, hoping—yes, there it was—that he would still find Em's hand resting there. He brushed his knuckles over the back of it, then tentatively grasped Em's fingers.

"Nah, we're good," he said, feeling shy despite the darkness. He gave Em's hand a squeeze. "I'd be a fucking fool to opt out of your magic fingers, mate."

Em made a dismissive sound, but he squeezed back. "Glad to hear it," he said, then gently pulled his hand away. "Goodnight, Arthur."

" 'Night." _Fucking friend pile._


	6. False Nine

Freya was not home for breakfast. Arthur dutifully did not touch her Shreddies. He stretched in the living room while Em cooked a hot breakfast, and they ate on the sofa, watching yesterday's Mercia v. Cornwall match.

"That's the cunty bastard who tripped me," Arthur said, pointing his knife at the lumbering defender. "Probably when I pulled the muscle."

"Cunty bastard," Em cheerfully agreed, mouth full of eggs. He finished chewing and swallowed. "But I saw the video. You did the real damage when you insisted on taking that kick. Oh, and then galloping around like a crazed pony for the next ten minutes."

"Crazed pony? Those were complex tactical patterns. You've seen Coach's chalkboards. And I seem to recall something about _scoring a third_ in the process."

Em shrugged. "I call 'em as I see 'em, my friend."

Arthur elbowed Em in the side. He nudged back. They got into an involved discussion about the pros and cons of attacking a traditional English back line with the kind of precise, flowing, creative forward movement favoured by the likes of Barcelona. When Arthur reached out to nick a rasher of bacon off Em's plate without thinking, Em only shoved his plate nearer and said, "Go on, then. I won't tell."

All in all, Arthur began to think that, if destiny flat-out refused to fulfil his fantasy of being taken by Em over the rim of the club's new ice bath, then being on his friend pile wasn't the worst place to be. Because Em was the kind of bloke who compared you to a crazed pony without it seeming a real insult, could hold his own in a tactics debate, and graciously gave you his bacon.

He also gave Arthur his personal mobile number, one of Will's clean T-shirts, and a new beanie hat, then drove him to the station in Will's car (Will was either incredibly zen about his possessions or incredibly naïve about his flatmates). Arthur parted from him with a heartfelt, if physically awkward, car hug and slept soundly on the train back to Camelot. 

He spent the remainder of his Sunday responding to messages, ordering his week's groceries online, and whipping Leon remotely at _FIFA Street._ By the time he arrived at the Knightswood training complex Monday morning, he'd hardly had time to reflect on his aborted big gay weekend.

* * *

Arthur's first attack of nerves came as he approached the media barrier, but this early it was only Sophia from the _Camelot Echo._ He stuck his head out the window of his car, flashed her a grin, and said something self-effacing about working hard on returning to top form. She ate it up with a smile, already scanning the road for the next to arrive. For once, Arthur did not mind that he wasn't top news.

He parked, jogged up the steps, and paused in front of the glass doors. And that's where he had his second moment of panic. 

The squad and the staff at Knightswood—they were Arthur's true family. He'd been in and out on loan to other clubs, but he'd always come home to CFC. He hadn't been born into the club like Percy had, but he'd been raised in it. (Literally. His mum had died giving birth to him, and his father, though brilliant, was an emotionally distant man who would only ever see Arthur's passion as the magic hide that, when flogged, always showered him with gold coins. Arthur's childhood drawings of his heroes hung on old Charlie the groundsman's corkboard. He'd been tutored in maths by Alice in marketing.) 

The people in this building knew him better than anyone. What if they sensed something? Or what if someone else connected with the club had spotted him—on the train or the street or near Avalon—and had casually mentioned it to someone else and…?

Arthur took a deep breath and forced himself through the doors.

And, lo and behold, in the canteen Catrina made the same bawdy jokes as she served him his breakfast. Percy yawned the same, "G'morning, Wart," as he sat heavily in his chair. 

In the dressing room, Kay had done his usual Monday morning prank and absconded with everyone's shower slides, leaving lewd ransom notes in their place (Kay had always been a bit special, even for a keeper, and they were a notoriously strange breed). 

Myror was in the mat room doing his yoga. In the gym, Leon was on the stationary bike, nose stuck in his personal bible (a battered copy of _Mercia United Ruined My Life),_ and Lance was doing something complicated with a skipping rope and several training cones. The rest of the first team wasn't in yet. 

In short, all was perfectly normal. Arthur sported a relieved smile as he headed for the treatment room.

It was strange seeing Em back in his work gear. The loose-fitting khakis and club polo—white with the red and gold club crest—had never suited him, but now that Arthur had seen him in his own clothes, he realised just how much they served as a disguise. Like this, Em looked pastier, skinnier, more ordinary.

But Em wasn't ordinary, not by long odds, and Arthur _still_ wanted him, no matter what he'd told himself in the past twelve hours. He felt a pang of longing and regret so keen he had to pause in the doorway and school his face into a neutral expression before entering.

"Morning," he said, stripping off his warm-up kit and positioning himself on the table.

"Morning yourself, stranger," Em said. "Good weekend?"

"You know, it was, actually. Despite itself."

Em gave that half-smile, the real one, the one from the kitchen when Arthur had offered to make the tea, and Arthur felt like Em had applied a heat compress directly to his chest. 

"Hmm. How's the groin feel? Any discomfort?"

Arthur didn't think he could get away with asking if massive blue balls counted, so he just shook his head. "But I didn't get up to anything vigorous, mainly a lot of wa—"

"Arthur!" Em's eyes grew huge.

"—lking," Arthur finished. "What? I did. That club was huge. Wait, you thought I was going to say wanking, didn't you? _Didn't you?"_ Arthur collapsed back on the table with a chortle.

"Hey! You, with the merry. Shut your gob. Some of us aren't quite there yet." Gwaine popped his head round the door, scrubbing at his face. "Oh, it's you, Princess. What does that woman put in your breakfast, fairy dust?"

Arthur started choking and had to sit up. Em placed a firm hand between his shoulder blades and glared at Gwaine, who suddenly looked as if he'd just slapped his own gran. 

"Oh, shit. Sorry, Em. I didn't mean… I meant no offence. Not that it's—fuck, Emrys, you know better than to listen to anything I say of a Monday morning."

When Gwaine was gone, Em silently fetched Arthur a cup of water from the sink and handed it to him. Then he turned to the supply cupboard.

Arthur downed the water, crushed the cup in his fist and lobbed it at the rubbish bin.

"Gwaine _knows?"_ he said, pitching his voice low. Without turning around, Em nodded.

"How? You said—"

Then suddenly Em was at his side, eyes wide. "No. Not about you, Arthur. Me."

"But—"

"Arthur," Em said. "Believe me, he hasn't a clue about you. I told you, we were at school together, back in Ealdor."

"You mean you knew even then that you were—you know—and you told someone like _Gwaine?_ Christ but I wouldn’t have wanted to be in your shoes."

An odd expression crossed Em's face. He stepped toward the door and peered out into the corridor, then came back to stand beside Arthur. He was biting his lip.

"Em? What is it?" 

"Arthur, this feels unprofessional, but here goes: Gwaine knows because I bloody sucked him off in the school showers when I was fourteen, alright? Classic gay cliché, FYI, but how was I to know?" Em shrugged, gave Arthur a tight smile.

"Afterward, he gave me a big sloppy kiss, told me that it had been grand and all, but that he really liked having a bit of tit to grab onto for anything more serious. And that was that. I still helped him with his biology; he still snuck me pints at the pub when Mam wasn't looking. No big deal."

Arthur, whose brain was pretty well stuck on the image of a young Em sucking off Gwaine in the school showers (cliché or no, it was a very compelling image), could only gape.

"You. With _Gwaine?"_

Em covered his face. "Oh god, so unprofessional," he moaned. 

He returned to the supply cupboard. "Look, Arthur, I'm only telling you so you understand that when Gwaine lets his mouth get ahead of his brain and starts cracking fairy jokes and then getting all shifty about it, it is because of _me._ And that I usually get him back and then some." He removed a rectangular gel pack from the cupboard and popped it in the microwave. 

"He's actually one of the most decent straight blokes I know, in that regard. Even if he did know about you, I don't think he'd care. He would probably just get all twitchy and apologetic every time he called you Princess, which would be a laugh, come to think of it."

"When you were _fourteen?"_

"Christ. You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? Here." Em handed Arthur the heated gel pack. "You know what to do with this. I'm going to go have a word with Coach about your training."

* * *

The next few weeks went by swiftly, and Arthur didn't even mind (much) that Coach insisted he train with the reserves for a few days until he proved he wanted back into the first team. It was only fair, given the way he'd played against Caerleon.

He resumed his discipline with regards to training and diet, but instead of spending his evenings in front of a screen with lotion and a flannel to hand, he took to calling Em. Not every night—because that would seem desperate and possibly count as harassment—but often enough that Arthur could tell where Em was in his evening commute by the ambient noise and how tired Em sounded.

They spoke about anything and everything, save that night at Avalon or the fact that, though Arthur's injury was fully healed, he'd been embarrassingly eager when Dr. Tally asked if he would like to continue seeing Em for "preventative therapy."

After they hung up, Arthur sometimes brought himself off lazily to the lingering echoes of Em's sleep-slurred, "Goodnight, Arthur. See you tomorrow."

He'd almost fooled himself into thinking that he'd found a sustainable existence (that this was as much as, or more, than he deserved) until one Friday, when Em announced that he'd been called in as a consultant on a rash of knacked hamstrings down south and would be gone for a couple of weeks, and Arthur felt like he'd been kicked in the ribs.

"The club lets you do that?" he said, incredulous. "Aid the enemy?" 

Em laughed. "Arthur, it's in my contract. I'm a bit of a specialist. I go where I'm needed, and you're doing fine—I'll print out the exercise regime I want you to do while I'm away, and Elena can do the massage. What the hell happened to the Fair Play Campaign, anyway, attitude like that?"

"Fair Play says nothing about you swanning off to rub Gareth Bale's—wait, is it Gareth Bale?" 

_"Arthur!_ I'm not going to tell you, am I? That's confidential."

"But you're Merlin, mate, the man with the magic fingers. You're the backroom's secret weapon."

Em's cheeks flushed pink. "Um."

Arthur backpedalled. "Camelot FC's backroom, I mean. Not, er…"

"Yes, well," Em said, and resumed kneading Arthur's quad. Arthur glared at the ceiling. It would be weird not seeing Em nearly every day. He'd even been contemplating ringing him over the weekend, seeing if he wanted to grab a meal or something.

They were silent for the rest of the session. As Arthur was zipping his warm-up jacket, Em leaned in and said, "Any special plans this weekend?"

Arthur looked up, suddenly hopeful. "Actually, I was thinking of seeing if you wanted to grab a burger Sunday. Or come over for some PlayStation?" 

Em stepped back as if Arthur had slapped him. "Oh, no, I only meant…"

"What?" Arthur could feel his cheeks heating.

"I'm off down south tomorrow, actually. Stopping with some friends on the way." Em wouldn't meet his eyes, which annoyed Arthur. "I was just wondering if you—not that it is any of my business—but Freya was asking the other day. If you'd given up the club scene, or… or found somewhere else you can go? Met someone?"

Arthur crossed his hands over his chest, glared at Em down his nose. "In my spare time from worrying about paparazzi or spending every bloody waking minute here training, you mean?" Which wasn't true, not by a long shot, but Arthur wasn't about to admit just how non-existent his social life was outside the club. 

"Oh, right." Em gestured lamely at the computer on the nearby counter. "How about online chat rooms? Virtual sex is the safest."

Arthur shook his head, said coldly, "Look, Em, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But, as you said, you're not my you-know-what mentor."

Em pulled a sour face. "I kind of am though. Arthur, I've an uncle in AA and he rings his sponsor less—not that I'm complaining, mind! You've saved me from awkward train conversations on more than one occasion, but—"

"Well, you're not my wingman then," Arthur cut in, cheeks flaming now. "So please stop trying to get me laid. Virtually or otherwise." He made to exit the treatment room, but Em stepped in his path, copying Arthur's defensive posture. His eyes were blazing.

"Look, perhaps I'm overstepping here, but I can't stand the thought of you denying yourself physical intimacy, Arthur. Not that it's a requirement of being gay, but you—you're a very physical guy. You went to Avalon for a reason." Em tilted his head, looking at Arthur with a strange mixture of defiance and pity. 

"Dammit, Arthur, I saw you stalking around with that shit-eating grin; you looked like a kid in a sweet shop. You looked _happy._ You shouldn't give that up because of one scare."

Arthur stared at a spot over Em's head, swallowed. "Football, Em. _Football_ makes me happy. Playing for Camelot is a dream come true." 

Arthur felt the weight of Em's gaze as he stepped around him out into the corridor. He paused and added, "I've made a place for myself in the first team, we've a brilliant squad and a chance to play in Europe next year, if we can stay up the table. Maybe all the… that other stuff will have to wait."

He sounded apologetic, even to himself, but Em said no more about it, so Arthur was fool enough to think he'd put paid to the matter.

* * *

Later that afternoon, as Arthur was unwinding with the lads in the game room, Em entered with a sheaf of papers. 

"New PT regimen," he said brightly, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to deposit them in his lap. As he did, he whispered, "And if it _is_ Gareth Bale, I'd much prefer to be rubbing his nipples than his hamstring. They're like chocolate drops. And I'll bet they are sensitive. Bet I could make him come buckets just from licking them."

Then he straightened up and announced to the room. "Behave, you lot. I'm tired of seeing your hairy arses on my table, and I want an easy time of it when I return." Arthur felt familiar fingers slide through his hair, then curl and give a sharp, firm tug. "And look after Wart here, won't you? He sometimes needs help putting one foot in front of the other."

Em departed to raucous laughter from the squad. They were still at it when Arthur, mortified, felt his phone vibrating with a new text message: _Tell me u dont need the ice bath now_

The addendum, "U bloody hypocrite," was heavily implied. And accurate. Arthur barely registered his teammates' laughter; he still felt the burning brand of Em's fingers on his scalp. That sharp tug had gone straight to his cock, mingling with the filthy-hot image of Em tonguing a man to climax through his nipples alone. Was that even possible? Had Em done it before?

"Aw, look fellas, Wart's blushing!" Kay crowed.

And he was, but not with embarrassment. He was flushed with desire and jealousy—and anger, too. What was Em thinking, saying something like that practically in front of the squad? Arthur was lucky his lap was covered in computer printouts. 

Then Arthur made the mistake of wondering if Em had spent the entire afternoon thinking up things that might get him hard.

He was very, _very_ lucky that his lap was covered in computer printouts.


	7. The Assist

Saturday dawned damp and windy. It was only a short jaunt over the hills to Escetia, but the mood on the bus was unsettled. Escetia were upstarts in the league, having been promoted two seasons ago and staying up only through large infusions of—some said blood-stained—cash from their new owner, Cenred, former managing director of one of the world's largest private security firms. 

He'd completely overhauled the club, from the scouts to the toilet scrubbers, brought in fancy dan foreign coaching staff, then—in a genius move—installed old man Jarl at their head. Jarl looked and acted the stereotype of an old-school Yorkshireman, flat cap and tight fist and all. He worked his staff hard and his squad harder, and Cenred paid them all well to take the abuse. They were becoming a force to be reckoned with in the league.

By match time it was raining steadily. Leon did his best to rouse the lads in the dressing room, but Arthur could tell it was going to be one of those grim afternoons where they had to gather their guts, fake a rhythm, and pray the real thing came along soon (provided everything didn't go to hell in the first ten minutes). Coach, who had a bit of a personal history with Jarl, merely glared and said that they knew what they needed to do.

"So get out there and bloody do it!" he said, making shooing motions with his hands.

Jarl's men pressed hard from the whistle, as expected. Lancelot was more than a match for their winger, closing down his sprints along the touchline, but they had a slippery little fuck in midfield who kept popping up all over, playing as a third striker almost, and running circles round Percy and Bors. A shot seemed inevitable, so when it did come—a scorcher off the imp's left foot from twenty yards out—it was almost a relief.

Kay leapt sideways and took the ball with his entire body, curling round it as he fell in the wet grass. He sprang up instantly, hollering and gesturing for them all to get up the pitch. Arthur jogged up between the two centre backs, then drifted out wide, hoping to pull one along with him and create some extra space for Myror to come through the middle. 

Kay booted a long ball up to Elyan on the left wing. He controlled it with his chest and passed it to Tristan, who one-touched it cross-field to Arthur. Arthur looked up and saw that Myror had indeed gained position on his lone marker and was streaking for goal, calling for the ball. He checked the position of the backs and angled a pass through, just out in front of Myror's onrushing feet. 

The other defenders closed in quickly, but Myror wasn't nicknamed "The Assassin" for nothing. He slalomed through the backs with feints, spins and frighteningly intricate footwork. All they had to give him was one small opening—which they did—and, with a lightning-quick jab of his foot, the ball was in the back of the net. Arthur flung his head back and roared with triumph into the pelting rain.

The rest of the match was a wet, frustrating affair dominated by a gruelling midfield battle. There were plenty of physical challenges and sparking tempers; it was a wonder no one was sent off. Arthur didn't see nearly as much of the ball as he would have liked (he'd been flagged offside on his one great breakaway run), but it turned out that the single goal was all Camelot needed to pull off the win.

* * *

As he trudged down the tunnel, soaked and mud-spattered, Arthur thought about how he would gloat to Em later. 

"Did you see how I did that, pulled the defender away so Myror could slip in there? Crazed pony antics for the win!" he would say.

Then he remembered that he wasn't going to ring Em, because he was angry with him. And because Em was staying "with friends" tonight, whatever that meant. 

Arthur hoped these were friends more along the lines of those in the American sitcom than those in the _Franz and Friends_ gangbang flicks. Though, on second thought, hadn't everyone on _Friends_ ended up shagging one another at some point too? Maybe not one after the other, and maybe not using a leather sling, but still… 

Em was single at the moment, but he had alluded to ex-boyfriends and plenty of casual hookups. Arthur knew he couldn't expect Em to stay chaste while he secretly lusted after him, but he didn't have to _like_ the thought of Em participating in a gangbang. He hoped that, whoever these "friends" were, they were more like distant acquaintances. Distant acquaintances who did not fancy one another in the slightest. 

Arthur was so preoccupied with these thoughts that, in the dressing room after his shower, he agreed to a late dinner at The Kitchens with Myror, Leon and their plus-ones, which in Leon's case meant Arthur's half-sister, Morgana.

Leon clapped him on the shoulder and smiled warmly. "Perfect. We haven't seen you out for ages; Morgana was worried you might be maturing. I'll have her bring Viv, shall I, make it a triple date?"

Arthur mumbled something non-committal, but they both knew that it wasn't a question. Morgana _always_ brought Viv when Arthur was along. 

Viv was Morgana's delightful bitch of a business partner; she lent her name and her fortune to their specialty boutique. Morgana seemed to think she was Arthur's soul mate. 

"You're both spoilt, blond, and incredibly vain," she'd declared the first time she'd paired them together for a PFA gala. "A narcissist's dream, really—just think of your gorgeous tow-headed babies!"

Arthur and Viv had been in one another's company less than five minutes before mutually deciding that Morgana was insane (and should never be allowed to match-make professionally), but they always humoured her. Viv wasn't a bad sort to spend an evening with, really—she was very clever—but she sapped Arthur's energy, and he supposed she thought him dull.

* * *

The restaurant was packed when Arthur arrived. Viv saw him first, squealing his name loud enough so that a good third of The Kitchens' patrons had their eyes on him as he crossed to their table (this was what Viv got out of the arrangement, being seen out and about with one of Camelot's up-and-coming stars, lapping up the envious looks). 

She presented her cheek to be kissed. Arthur dutifully did so, mouthed, "You wish," at Morgana, who was angling for similar treatment, and nodded at Leon. Myror and his wife Constance arrived soon after, and Arthur settled in for an evening of trying to enjoy orgasmically delicious food while being teased, goaded, and gawked at.

Halfway through the main course, mobiles started buzzing and chiming like mad. It was Tristan, texting everyone to announce that he'd finally got engaged to Issie, the "Irish goddess" he'd met at a cousin's wedding last year. 

The dinner conversation swiftly devolved into an elaborate planning session for the stag night. Other team members texted their ideas, Viv egged them on to new lows, Constance rolled her eyes, and Morgana presided over the whole affair with a serene smile and a gleam in her eyes that meant she knew she and Viv would be making money off this. (Arthur had never been in Lady Viv's, but he knew the boutique sold much more than the high-end lingerie and bespoke gowns advertised in the windows; Morgana had hinted at a back room filled with all kinds of kinky tat.)

Arthur heard mention of corsets and harnesses and a "gauntlet of pricks"—by the end of the evening he'd be surprised if Morgana hadn't turned Tristan's stag do into one of her own debauched fantasies _and_ convinced Leon that it had all been his idea—but by this point he was only listening with half an ear, because he had noticed two men sitting up at the bar.

Their backs were to Arthur. One was built like a bouncer, with close-cropped greying hair and a tan that had come from a bottle. The other was slender and dark-skinned, dressed in a beautiful cream-colored suit. 

They were, Arthur thought, an unlikely couple, but they _were_ a couple. There was no doubt in Arthur's mind. Everything about their body language—their easy closeness, the tilt of their heads as they conversed, the well-rehearsed ballet of their hands passing the salt and pepper mills and various dishes of condiments—told Arthur that these two men knew one another well, cared for one another, possibly even lived together. 

Every so often the older man would get agitated about something, gesticulating wildly, and the younger one would place his hand gently on his partner's lower back and rub a little circle there or skim his knuckles over the creased skin at the back of his neck. 

They were simple gestures, but they made Arthur seethingly, achingly lonely. He wanted to smash something, preferably with his head. He wanted to be far _far_ away from happy couples and talk of engagements and stag nights. He wanted to be—

"Oi! Wart!"

"What?" Arthur snapped. 

Leon's forehead furrowed. Morgana raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry, mate, but you were miles away," Leon said. "We need to know if we can stash the stuff at yours. We've checked round but everyone's either nervous about the wives and kiddies stumbling onto it or flat out refusing. I think Percy's afraid the things might come to life and attack. And you know Tristan is always round at mine and Gwaine's, so he'd find it for sure."

"Fine. Whatever. Wait—what are we talking about here, exactly?"

"Arthur, darling, where have you been?" Viv said, peering into his face with a mischievous smile. "The, er, props for Tristan's stag do, from the shop. We're going with a full twenty-one-gun salute, if you know what I mean."

Constance reached across the table and patted his hand. "He's probably been closing his ears to your depraved plots, you sick things."

"Says the mother of my children, who just offered to give Tristan a lap dance herself if he was tied up and begging for it!" Myror protested.

As the good-natured bickering continued, Arthur glanced back to the couple at the bar. The older man had his hand resting on his partner's shoulder as he finished off a glass of wine. He stood, gave him a peck on the cheek and headed towards the toilets. The younger man watched him go, then quickly transferred a portion of his partner's food onto his own plate, saying something to the barmaid which had her laughing and pretending not to have seen.

With a sigh, Arthur pulled his attention back to his dining companions, only to find that Morgana was watching him intently. He froze. Very deliberately she turned her head, retracing the line of his gaze. Whatever she saw (or thought she saw) there, Arthur didn't know, but she gave Arthur the strangest, softest look afterwards. 

No one else noticed, and Morgana didn't say a word about it as they were leaving, but Arthur couldn't help but feel terrified that he'd given himself away.

* * *

Arthur's terror returned the following Saturday evening, when Morgana rang him to ask if he could take delivery of the goods they'd discussed.

"What, now?" he said. He'd just arranged a medley of steamed autumn vegetables around his chicken and penne. They were playing Sunday this week, so he was having a square meal and an early night.

"Yes, now. Please don't say it is inconvenient, as I'm in your lobby. And tell security to clear my assistants. There are two."

"Assistants? Morgana, just how much—"

"Relax, Arthur, we're only talking three dozen bags or so. You'll hardly notice in that empty tomb of a flat."

Arthur rang down to security, placed a pot lid over his meal and went to unlock the door. 

The assistants were two plucked, waxed and be-ponytailed young things in tight tops and tall heels. They came tottering in with masses of small jewel-coloured gift bags hanging off each arm; Morgana trailed behind with a purse that could have housed a family of Chihuahuas. 

Arthur directed them to what was supposed to be the guest room, but which served as open storage for Arthur's fitness equipment and old gaming consoles. Morgana supervised the arrangement of the bags along one wall, then shooed the girls out of Arthur's flat to wait for her by the lift. 

When she had Arthur alone, she rummaged around in her purse and pulled out a crimson gift bag. It was larger than the others and studded with blue and gold paste jewels.

"This is for you."

"Okay," Arthur said. "Just leave it with the others. I'll remember."

Morgana tilted her head and gave him the little smirk that had so enraged him as a boy.

"This isn't for Tristan's stag night. This is something extra."

"What is it?"

Morgana thrust the bag at him impatiently and Arthur took it, eyeing it warily. 

"A gift from a loving sister. Don't look yet. Just thank me now, open it later, and we need never speak of it again if you don't want to."

Arthur felt himself blushing. "Morgana, is this from Lady Viv's? Because believe me, there is _nothing_ in Lady Viv's that I—"

Suddenly Morgana was in Arthur's face, holding his chin in a painful vice grip.

"Stop lying, Pendragon," she whispered viciously. "To yourself, if nobody else."

Then she was gone, slamming the door behind her. When Arthur rubbed his jaw, he could feel the marks made by her fingernails. 

He cautiously removed the decorative tissue and peered down into the bag. 

He dropped it where he stood—halfway between the entry hall and the living room proper—went into his bedroom, and closed the door. He lay facedown on top of the duvet and began replaying in his head every missed goal, every mistimed tackle or poorly-weighted pass, until sleep took him beyond reproach.

He woke up ravenous and pissed off with himself for being such a coward.


	8. Seeing Red

Sunday's match was a disaster. Western Isles had a loud travelling support group whose attitudes and chants were stuck in the bad old days, and unfortunately some of the team seemed to share their values. Arthur heard monkey noises coming from the away end every time Elyan or Myror had the ball (which was stupid as well as racist, as Elyan came from a small village outside Camelot, and Myror's parents had a landed estate in the Home Counties; Arthur doubted either of them associated monkeys with anything other than storybooks and childhood trips to the zoo). 

When Elyan went down under a nasty tackle and didn't get up right away, Arthur was close enough to see Western Isles' hulking captain, Valiant, flick a sneaky boot into his side.

"Oi, ref!" he shouted, pointing as he raced to Elyan's side. 

The big defender stepped in Arthur's way and growled, "Whoa there, my son. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Little Black Sambo's just having a lie-down, isn't he? Thinks he's back home in Africa."

"He's from Forgedale and he's hurt, you fucking cunt!" Arthur screamed, pushing at the man's chest, trying to get around him. 

Others had arrived by this point—Arthur vaguely heard Gwaine's voice, felt hands tugging him back—but then the big man was laughing in Arthur's face, his breath vile, saying, _"Ooer,_ lookit you froth, blondie. Your bum boy is he? Caught yourself the jungle fever? You should be thanking me for hobbling him for you. Now he can't run away."

"Arthur!" Gwaine shouted, but it was too late. 

Arthur surged forward, planting his forehead square in the man's chest, sending him sprawling to the pitch. It took three pairs of arms to keep him from leaping on top of him and beating his face to a pulp.

He was still staring daggers at the man as he was booked—a straight red, no question—and his breathing did not return to normal until well after he'd been escorted to the dressing room. 

He showered and changed on autopilot, then went to the club lounge. There, he watched numbly as ten-man Camelot went on to lose 2-nil. The announcers speculated that Elyan could be out for up to two months with a fractured metatarsal. They also speculated over what had made Arthur lose his temper. There had been allegations of racist abuse, but the general consensus was that such things were best left to the officials and that Arthur was no longer in the nursery—he needed reigning in if he wanted to succeed at this level. 

Dismayed, Arthur joined the squad back in the dressing room after the match, ready to apologise. Coach pulled him aside.

"Gwaine told me what that great lump of shite said."

"Coach, I—"

Coach held up a hand. "Hear me out." He leaned in and placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I shouldn't be saying this, but—as a man and a father—I couldn't be prouder of what you did. You stood up for your teammate, you stood up for yourself—hell, you stood up for all of us who can't stand mouthy ignorant scum."

Coach dropped his hand and waited until Arthur met his eyes. "However, as your manager I'm bound to point out that your heroic hissy fit cost us dearly. I know it's shite, Pendragon, but on the pitch the only proper response to that kind of offal is _goals._ So do your preaching on your own clock; when you're on mine, I expect you to shut up and play, understood? Even if they're telling you they buggered your gran with a bargepole."

Arthur nodded.

"Good. Now get the hell out of my face. Go home. I've a mardy squad to mop up and several official complaints to lodge. Plus now I have to work out what I'm going to do against Cornwall without my best left winger and the most talented, albeit _boneheaded,_ striker to come up through Camelot's academy in my lifetime."

"Coach, I'm really—"

"Shoo!"

* * *

The bag from Lady Viv's was waiting for Arthur exactly where he'd dropped it the night before. Arthur laughed out loud when he caught sight of it. He stripped off his clothes right there in the entry hall, snatched up the bag and carried it into his bedroom, upending the contents onto his bed. 

Morgana had been thorough. There was a dildo, two different butt plugs, three kinds of lube, nipple clamps, a cock and ball harness, a couple of mysterious fabric and Velcro contraptions with straps on, and a small avalanche of condoms and instructional pamphlets.

Arthur removed the longer, more slender butt plug—cobalt blue silicone with a flared rectangular base—from its packaging and examined it. 

"I am a bum boy," he announced to the butt plug and the room at large. "A bum boy, you hear?" he shouted, shaking the thing by its base. "A big candy-assed queer!" 

He chuckled as the plug waggled in his hand. "Might as well get used to it," he whispered, setting it on his nightstand.

Arthur gathered the rest of the toys and supplies and lined them up on the ledge above his bed. After reading all the labels, he chose a lube that wasn't flavoured and was marked as ideal for use with silicone toys, and set it alongside the plug. 

"Hmm," he said. Then, "In for a penny…" as he draped the cock and ball harness over the tip of the plug.

Arthur padded back out into the hall. He turned up the heat and closed the shades. He was on the twenty-third floor, but there were such things as nutters with telephoto lenses, and who knew where they might be lurking? 

In the kitchen, he turned on the oven and—standing off to one side, because bare tackle and spring-loaded oven doors didn't seem like a good mix—popped in a tray of frozen pasta bake. Then he rooted through his cupboards, searching for something celebratory.

He found the bottle of wine his father had presented to him two years back, when he'd signed his first senior contract (Uther joking to the press that he'd take the cost out of Arthur's wages; Arthur smiling woodenly into the glare of camera flash). 

_How perfectly fucking fitting,_ he thought, grabbing a corkscrew.

Arthur normally ate in his kitchen or in the living room, but he decided that he ought to make this a bit of an event. So, after opening the wine, he carried it through to the formal dining area. He set a place with a proper wine glass, flatware, and a cloth dinner napkin. Then, after glancing down, he placed another dinner napkin on the seat of the chair.

Back in the bedroom, he settled on his bed and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He palmed his chest, ran his hands down over his stomach and upper thighs, then started toying with his balls. 

When his cock began to take an interest, he opened his eyes and reached for the harness, snapping the main strap round his cock and balls. He positioned his balls on either side of the divider strap and snapped it to the cross-piece that snugged tight against the base of his shaft. He'd thought all those snaps would feel cold, but they had some kind of coating on them. The leather itself felt great; it was butter-soft against his skin. 

Arthur ran a hand over his trussed package, wondering why—for all the times he'd watched and wanked to it on a screen—he'd never tried something like this himself before.

He slicked up one finger with the lube and began teasing his hole, running the pad of his finger in circles around the perimeter, then pressing in with the tip. With his other hand, he picked up the plug. He looked at it, imagining it inside himself. He held it against his lips, licked at it, then slid it across the flat of his tongue and partway down his throat.

He suckled the plug as he fingered himself. It was nothing he hadn't done before, minus all the fancy props—he sometimes sucked on two of his fingers as he worked one into his arse—but the plug had the advantage of being longer than his fingers and alien to his body; it was easier for Arthur to imagine it was someone else's cock. 

_Em's cock._ Except Arthur hoped Em's cock was much larger. And less blue.

Arthur released the plug from his mouth, paused his ministrations, and sat up. He squirted a generous dollop of lube onto his hand, rubbing the clear goo between his fingers to warm it before slathering it all over the plug. He lay back down, canting his hips up towards the ceiling. 

He teased himself with the tip of the plug for a moment, then gently began to slide it in, twisting, pausing, allowing his body to adjust to the foreign presence. At last, with nerve endings sparking and his cock straining against its bondage, Arthur had the plug fully inserted. 

Arthur lay, breathing heavily for a moment. Then, rolling onto his side and clenching his muscles so as not to dislodge the plug, he sat up. He walked gingerly to the en suite bathroom to wash his hands. 

He smiled his for-the-media smile at his reflection in the mirror. His lips were spit-slick, his cheeks blotched with pink. A slow-burning blush was making its way down his chest.

"Hello," he said. "My name is Arthur Pendragon, and I am absolutely chuffed to be here today to tell you about the delights of anal stimulation."

He had no idea what he was doing—possibly he was cracking up; possibly he was training for a career in amateur porn—but he felt marvellous. He slowly made his way to the kitchen, where he amused himself by sorting through the week's post—naked, ball-bound, and with a plug in his arse—until his pasta bake was ready.

Arthur settled himself carefully on the chair, toasted his own health, and switched on the telly (what Arthur's flat lacked in personality, it made up for in sheer number of screen-bearing devices).

He found a film to watch with his dinner (not porn but definitely in the foreplay category), a period piece with soldiers who were secretly lovers. By night, their dark eyes smouldered at one another over campfires until it was time to stave off the cold under a shared blanket. By day, they shot enemy soldiers to pieces and skewered their eyeballs on bayonets. 

Not half bad, really. Arthur certainly felt very emotional by the end (though that might have had more to do with the fact that he'd drunk most of the wine, and his cock was dying for either a piss or a wank; it didn't much care). He squirmed in his seat and licked the last bits of sauce from his fingertips. 

Arthur's mobile rang. He recognised the number immediately. Without thinking, he snatched up the phone. 

"Em!" he cried. "Mate, it's been—"

_"Arthur?"_

"Yes, it's me, Em."

_"Oh, Arthur, are you all right? I only just saw on Sky Sports; then I saw Gwaine's text. I rang him and he told me what happened._

"What?" The afternoon's events seemed very far away to Arthur, compared to the insistent pressure in his arse and the taste of rich wine on his tongue. "Oh, yes, the match. Fucking racist phobahomic… er, homophobic cunt. I don't want to talk about him. I want to talk to you about… you."

_"Arthur, are you drunk? Where are you?"_

"In the dining room, naked." It was out before he could censor himself. Arthur held the phone away from his mouth and giggled. He brought it back to his ear when he heard tinny-sounding shouting.

"Whoops! Sorry, mate, TMI."

_"Arthur, um, I may regret asking this, but what are you doing? What are you on?"_

Arthur stifled another giggle. "It's going to be more TMI, Em. Do you really want to know?"

_"Yes. Jaysus, Arthur, you're freaking me out."_

"Aww, Em. Good of you to worry, mate, but it's only a bit of merlot, and I'm only playing."

_"Playing?"_

Arthur found himself nodding, though there was no way Em could see him. "Mmm-hmm. Playing with the new toys Morgana gave me. From her naughty shop."

There was a horrible spluttering, choking sound on Em's end. Arthur leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table, delighting in the way the position drove the tip of the plug into his prostate. 

"For example, right now I am sitting at my—oh, hrmm, that's nice—dining room table, as I said, wearing nothing but a leather cock and ball harness and a big, blue—Em? _Em?"_

Arthur frowned at his phone. He switched off the television and cleaned up his meal, then returned to his bedroom. He sprawled on the bed and punched in Em's speed dial code.

"You hung up on me," he said.

_"Oh god, sorry, I… I, um… I dropped my phone,"_ Em stammered. 

"Lame, Emrys. A five-year-old could do better."

_"Arthur, you're—well, you're clearly drunk. Or gone round the bend."_

"Ha! Exactly!" Arthur crowed. "The big, queer bend!"

_"And I didn't think you really meant to be telling me about your, er, play."_

"Oh, but I did. Who if not you, Em? You're the only gay I know, as you've said. And you told me you couldn't stand the thought of me denying myself physical intimacy. Well, I'm having physical intimacy—quite lovely physical intimacy—with an Adonis Classic Slim in cobalt blue. I've had it in there for a couple of hours now, and I thought you'd like to know." 

There was a long silence.

"Em?" Arthur heard a deep inhale, then a muffled series of thumps and a curse.

_"Okay, Arthur, I'm going to hang up now."_

"No, no, wait," Arthur said, feeling the unhappy pinch of sobriety cutting through all the other conflicting bodily sensations. "Em, I—god I'm such a stupid bastard!"

_"No argument there."_

"I missed you, Em, and you were right: I do want it. The sex and… and everything. I'm sorry I've been such a prude."

Arthur heard more muffled thumps. When Em started speaking again he sounded hoarse.

_"Arthur, you've nothing to apologise to me for. Apologise to yourself for all the time you've wasted. And play safe, alright? I've got to go. I'll see you in a week or so."_

"No, wait, Em, you still don't understand!"

_"What, Arthur? What don't I understand?"_

"I wish it were you," Arthur whispered, fisting his free hand in the duvet. "The plug Em, I wish it were you. I can't stop thinking about—"

_"Oh god, Arthur, stop. Please. Just—"_ There was harsh breathing on the line, then something that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. _"I have to go, alright? Take care of yourself, Arthur. Goodnight."_

Arthur flung the phone aside with a groan. He flicked open the snaps of the harness, taking himself roughly in one hand and twisting the base of the plug with the other, giving his somewhat numb prostate a jolt of new sensation.

He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined that the conversation had ended differently, that Em had told him to keep fucking himself open with the blue toy until he could get himself up the motorway and do the job properly. That he'd missed Arthur and was sorry for leaving him. That Arthur wasn't a fumbling, virginal, tantrum-throwing lager lout, but a noble warrior and a glorious cockslut-in-the-making, and that he, Em, would be more than happy to stay and stay and stay and teach Arthur all the ways a man could worship another man's—

Arthur came with a shout—a tremendous, deep-seated orgasm that left him twitching and boneless, hot spunk cooling on his belly and thighs.


	9. Benched

Arthur woke up Monday to a minor media shitstorm. Complaints and counter-complaints had been flying back and forth between Camelot and Western Isles, and the investigative arm of the FA had sprung into action. Some pundits thought Arthur should have been given more than a one-match suspension; others argued that the Western Isles' captain should have been sent off as well, given the video evidence and emerging allegations against him.

His mobile, which he'd switched off before crawling under the duvet last night, was practically quivering with alerts for missed calls and new text and voicemail messages. Arthur scrolled through to see if any of them were from Em. They weren't.

Arthur pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, poured himself a tall glass of water, and settled onto the sofa with his mobile. 

In essence, the messages amounted to: Under no circumstance was Arthur to leave his flat or speak to anyone until he'd discussed his next steps with his agent and the club's legal and PR departments; several people (Morgana included) were some combination of concerned and supportive; several more had the concerns _without_ the support; and Arthur's father wanted to know what the hell Arthur thought he was doing.

Arthur sat on his sofa for a good ten minutes, turning the phone over and over in his hands. _Sorry, Father, wrong question. The correct one is: What the hell am I going to do next?_

He was sure there were whispers, even now, about why he had gotten so riled. _Too near the mark, perhaps? Hit a raw nerve?_

And, yes, Arthur could admit that he was not the poster child for gay pride. However, his anger had not been driven primarily by fear or self-loathing. He'd been irritated by the hostile away fans, concerned for Elyan, and furious that that venomous fuck had thought he could get away with—literally—kicking a man when he was down. So when Valiant had started spewing that racist, queer-bashing rubbish as well, Arthur had had just about enough. 

It was all so stupid. So hateful. He was beginning to understand why Morgana was forever on a crusade to strip the word "cunt" from Leon's swearing vocabulary: It got a bit old, hearing a permanent, integral part of oneself constantly being used as an insult.

Arthur raised the glass to his lips and downed half the water in one go. It was strange. A month ago he would have been a wreck over any kind of suspension, but now he felt perfectly calm.

He would apologise for his violent conduct, take whatever punishment the club and the FA decided to hand him, but he decided he would not apologise for the anger that had led to the violence. He would not apologise for who he was or the way he felt, not to his agent, not to his father, not to the club, not to the FA—and not to Em, either.

Arthur punched in Em's speed dial code. It rang several times before kicking over to voicemail.

"Em, it's me. Look, I'm sorry if I was rude last night, if I made you uncomfortable or anything, but I meant it—what I said before we hung up. And I'm not sorry I finally told you, because you've become a good mate and I'd like… well, I don't want to keep that kind of secret from you. It was horribly shite and unclassy, as far as declarations go, but I think you should forgive me, because I'm new to this. And I've been told that I have a terrible mentor. So, yeah, I've got to go salvage my public image, but I'd love to speak to you later. I want to tell you, properly. And I'll… I'll understand if you don't—"

The voicemail cut Arthur off with a strident _bleep._ Arthur swore and jumped up from the sofa. He prodded the redial key.

"Dammit, Em!" he said when he was back in voicemail. "Your phone is ruining my— Fuck, anyway, what I was _trying_ to say is that I'll understand if you don't want what I'm offering. Especially now. I can see how it would be kind of a crap deal for you, what with all the—ah—public restrictions and my lack of experience. Or maybe you aren't even into… maybe I'm not…? Shit. Er, but we should talk, okay? Because I _do_ want. Very much. So call me. Now, I'm going to go before—"

_Bleep_

"Fucking phones!" Arthur said, flinging his onto the sofa. He decided to shower and breakfast before ringing anyone else. 

Everywhere in his flat, Arthur saw evidence of the night before—from the array of objects on the ledge in his bedroom to the freshly scrubbed plug lolling beside the wash basin in the en suite; from the sticky, empty wine bottle in the kitchen sink to the soiled dinner napkins crumpled on the dining room table. Arthur saw it all, remembered, and smiled. He decided not to tidy or hide one single thing. Not yet. Morgana may have compared his flat to a tomb, but from now on it would be also be a sanctuary— _his_ sanctuary.

* * *

By the time he returned home Monday night, Arthur wanted nothing more than to retreat into a warm bath, his secret porn stash, and a large bag of crisps. Clearly, going by the number of meetings and interviews involved, nutting an ignorant arsehole was a much bigger deal than scoring a hat-trick in the local derby. 

However, Arthur thought he'd got his point across—that he'd made a poor decision but for very righteous reasons—and all things pointed to the FA being far more likely to bring charges against Valiant than interfere with the ref's decision to only suspend Arthur for one match. If not, his agent and Camelot's legal department assured him that he had very good grounds for an appeal.

It was silly, he knew, but what had kept Arthur on point throughout the day—smiling and grimacing and shaking his head ruefully on demand—was the thought of that bright blue butt plug beside his washbasin, combined with the thought of speaking to Em.

He resisted the crisps, but gave in to the bath and the porn. What was the point of having a flat screen on a wall bracket in the en suite if not for such indulgences, after all? 

By half-past ten, Arthur decided to stop waiting (and wanking) and be proactive; but Em's number went straight to voicemail after two rings, which meant he was either engaged or purposefully ignoring Arthur's calls. He blew out a frustrated breath, set his mobile aside, and sank down into the water.

It was after eleven when the text came. Arthur slopped water all over the floor in his eagerness to dry his hands and grab his phone.

_U forgot work mate. U r my patient, so bad idea_

Arthur stared, dumbfounded, at the small screen. How had he not considered this one crucial fact, when Em had repeatedly told him how much he loved his job, what a privilege it was to have an impact at this level in a sport he'd adored since he was a boy? 

He was still staring when the next message came in.

_Then theres issue of u being heediously ugly. I do have taste u no_

Arthur barked out a laugh. How did Em do that—go from being all discouraging to making Arthur laugh in the span of a few seconds?

Arthur was busily composing a reply, referencing the fact that Em had called his nose majestic once and was _clearly_ enamoured of his groin, given how often he was always putting his hands on it, when the final message came.

_G2g but saw interview on sky today. Proud of u_

Arthur went to bed with a smile on his face—never mind the fact that he'd wanted a heart-to-heart and only had another sudsy solo wank—because Em was _proud_ of him. 

Just as he drifted off to sleep, it occurred to him that Em may well have texted him because he didn’t trust himself to resist Arthur in person—or live voice. Whatever. His smile grew wider.

* * *

At Wednesday's fourth round League Cup match against Cornwall, Arthur served his suspension sitting beside Elyan in the stands. The winger was chafing against his unwanted holiday, but otherwise in good spirits. His right foot and ankle were encased in a pneumatic walking brace, his trouser leg rolled up to mid-calf to accommodate the device.

For the most part they kept their eyes on the match, murmuring automatic calls of "Man on, man on!" and "Switch it up." Near the end of the first half though, a streaker ran onto the pitch. The game was delayed as the stewards chased him down. 

Elyan shook his head and muttered, "I've got nothing against a little casual nudity, but with the ticket prices they charge round here, you'd think they'd actually come to see the match." He shot Arthur a guilty look. "No offence intended, of course. Your old man has every right to—"

"Whoa, E. I thought we'd been over this. I'm your mate well before I'm his son. I only see him in the flesh half a dozen times a year. You needn't hold back on my account."

Elyan grinned. "You're unreal, you know that, Pendragon?"

Arthur frowned and poked himself in the belly. "Feels solid to me."

Elyan shook his head, laughing. "Wanker. I mean—ah, never mind."

"What?"

"Just, what the fuck possessed you to get into it with that Neanderthal? I've heard shit like that my whole life, you know. And if I’d done what you did every time? Mate, I'd either be in Swinfen Hall or delivering meat patties to wrecked university students at arse-o'clock in the morning. And I'd only ever be watching this nonsense—" He nodded towards the pitch, where three stewards had finally managed to subdue the portly streaker. "—on the telly."

Arthur fiddled with his tie. He snuck a glance over at Elyan. Shrugged. "He just pissed me off, alright? You were down and he kicked you, and then he was in my face, pissing me off. I'd had enough. And I don’t care how many times you've heard it; it doesn’t make it okay."

Elyan sighed. "Says the golden-haired scion of the Pendragon family, who has never been looked at askance in his life. Tell me, Arthur, what fucking century do you think this is? I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not your burden or your cause or whatever; you don’t need to go all Zizou on my behalf."

Arthur tensed, fingers curled in the fabric of his trousers. The streaker had been escorted off the pitch, and the ref was preparing to restart play. He heard Elyan let out a frustrated breath; out of the corner of his eye he saw him shake his head again and lean down to scratch inside the upper edge of his brace. 

Just as the ball was dropped, Arthur leaned towards Elyan. "Maybe it wasn't _just_ on your behalf. Maybe I did it for my own damn reasons."

Elyan rounded on him in disbelief. "What is that supposed to mean? And don’t give me that crap you were shovelling out on Sky. You've never gone in for causes before."

"I'm not 'going in for causes,' " Arthur whispered furiously. "I'm just tired of taking that kind of shite, is all."

Elyan laughed. _"You're_ tired? Oh, right. I'll bet it is exhausting being so lily-white. And if you're a batty boy, them I'm Norwegian. My own sister swoons at the sight of you, and she's fussy."

Arthur could feel the blood rushing into his face. His clenched his fists in his lap, but forced himself to breathe normally. He kept his eyes on Elyan's face.

Elyan's smile faded. He met Arthur's gaze, brows arched high up his forehead. "Hey, mate. What—"

"John Carew is black," Arthur broke in.

"What?"

"John Carew. He's black _and_ he's Norwegian, isn’t he? So there goes your argument, and since when do you have a sister?"

Elyan's face relaxed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Our parents split when I was young, so we grew up apart; only reconnected about a year a— wait, Arthur, what are we talking about here?"

"I could be gay, for all you know; that's all I'm saying. So you shouldn't make assumptions, you gimpy bigot."

"Hey!" Elyan crashed his good leg into Arthur's. "You can’t say shit like that."

Arthur jostled Elyan with his shoulder. "Just did."

"Wanker."

"Gimp. Oh shit—do you see that? Lance is doing step overs!"

Elyan chortled. "Oh my god, I bet that's what all that rope-skipping and training cone nonsense is about. He wants to be like C-Ron! Oh, I am _so_ not letting this one go."

"Mate, I heard he can’t _stand_ C-Ron. Some sort of intense abs-based competition."

"All the better." Elyan rubbed his hands together. "My sister has some of his old Pepe jeans ads. They are totally going up on Lance's locker. You are my witness."

"Witness to you getting your arse kicked, most like."

"By Lance? Never, mate. He won't fight dirty. But I will, and as anyone who has happened to walk by when he's getting his ankles taped knows, his feet are mad ticklish."

"You're evil, E. How does Coach not see this?"

Elyan responded with a bright, angelic grin, and Arthur shook his head in amazement. 

They watched the remaining few minutes of the half in companionable silence. When the whistle blew—score still nil-nil, though not through any lack of effort—Arthur stood and stretched. He offered Elyan a hand up. As Elyan sorted his crutches, he kept on sneaking little glances at Arthur.

"What is it, E? Hurry the fuck up. I need a slash and you're blocking the row."

"Just, Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

Elyan looked around quickly, then leaned in close. "If you _are,_ you know—well, maybe the squad deserves to know that. We're family too, yeah? And I can only speak for myself here, but if you can play the way you played against Mercia with any kind of consistency? You could be shagging sheep on the moon, for all I care. I'm tired of big nines who fanny about and moan about service, but can't keep up with my passing. You've got something special, Pendragon. We all see it."

"Ah, that's…" Arthur's palms were sweating. He wiped them on his trousers and gave Elyan a tight, helpless smile. "Thanks, mate. I'll keep that in mind."

Elyan nodded at him, as if he'd said everything he needed to say, and turned to swing himself out into the aisle. Then he looked back over his shoulder. "Just so you know though, my sister will be gutted. Last time I was at hers, I noticed the club calendar I'd given her was still stuck on August." Elyan waggled his eyebrows. "She thinks it’s a crime the sponsors wouldn’t let you take your shirt off."

"Oh god, Elyan, just shut up and _move,_ alright? I'd like to be back in time for the second half."

* * *

After eighty minutes of high-spirited end-to-end action, Owain, who was in for Arthur, managed to bundle Myror's deflected shot over the line. Five minutes later, Percy smashed in a header off a corner kick from Gwaine. Camelot was through to the fifth round.

The Citadel was absolutely rocking as the lads jogged off the pitch, even though the stands were nowhere near as full as they were at weekends. Arthur stood, applauding, and started chanting along with the crowd. Beside him, Elyan raised one crutch in the air, pumping it up and down victoriously. That was the image the cameras caught and flashed across the jumbotron as they panned the crowd: identical blinding grins on two very different faces. 

They used the clip in the highlights footage on Sky. Watching in his kitchen that evening, Arthur realised that something big, something huge, had happened in the stands. He wasn't ready to take the next step—for now he just wanted to enjoy the win, then start training for Sunday's match against Wessex—but he tucked Elyan's words close to his heart. 

Em still wasn't answering his phone. Not wanting to risk being bleeped at again, Arthur simply said, "Good result today. Had a nice chat with Elyan, too; you can see our daft mugs on Sky. Hope you're well. Miss you."

He set about chopping veg for a stir-fry. Ten minutes later, the text came in.

_Saw it. Also freya rang 2 complain, u made gwen spill stout on her knitting_

_Wtf? Who's gwen?_ Arthur replied, after setting the knife aside.

_Our gwen. Freya's bff remember? Delusional cow thinks u r adorable + now knight in armour 4 what u did 4 her bb brother_

Arthur stared at the screen. He sent one last text, rocking the all caps— _PICK UP NOW DAMMIT EMRYS_ —then punched in Em's speed dial code.

"What the fuck, Em? Your Gwen is… Freya is _best mates_ with Elyan's sister?"

_"Hey, Arthur."_ Em sounded weary. _"And yes, but don't freak out. Freya has kept your secret, even though it is killing her every time she sees your damn posters on Gwen's bedroom wall."_

Arthur cradled his forehead in his hand, then dropped his hand and pressed his face against the cool granite worktop. 

_"Arthur, I'm serious. Freya won't say anything. I didn't even have to bribe her—much. She may not like it, but she understands what's at stake. Arthur?"_

Arthur moaned, thumping his head gently against the worktop. "Much appreciated, Em, but it may not fucking matter for much longer."

_"What? Why?"_

"Because I think I may have sort of come out to Elyan today." Arthur held his mobile away from his ear, anticipating shouting or squealing or at least some hearty congratulations, but all was silent. He put the phone back to his ear. "Em?"

_"Oh, Arthur, that is fantastic,"_ Em said, voice barely above a whisper. _"How did it go?"_

"Okay, I think? I don't know. It was a little sideways."

_"Sideways?"_

"Guy talk. Hypothetical. As in, still room for deniability. But it's a start, right? And he didn't freak out or anything, which was... Yeah, it was good. Now, can we please talk about _you_ and when you're coming back? I want to see you."

_"Oh, um. This weekend, I think. So I'll see you Monday at Knightswood."_

"Bollocks! Have supper with me here at mine Sunday night. After the match. I'll do something with chicken. I'm really good with chicken."

_"Don’t think that would be a good idea, Arthur."_

"Because you don’t like chicken? Who doesn’t like chicken?"

_"Because you know why."_ Em was starting to sound cranky.

"Em, I'll go in tomorrow and ask to stop treatment with you, if that is really what is bothering you. The work thing is potentially an issue, but I know of at least three other couples amongst Camelot's staff. As long as we have no say on the other's duties or wages and aren't drawing attention to ourselves, then I don’t really see the problem."

_"Jaysus, Arthur. Why can't you let it go?"_ Em said harshly. _"Go back to Avalon and get your cock sucked in the backroom by some beefy stud, alright? I promise you'll feel different after."_

"Oh, I see. You think I'm only into you because you happened to be the first friendly gay face I stumbled across on my big night out." 

Arthur picked the knife up and stabbed the tip into the chopping block.

"Well let me tell you something, Em, I've wanted that filthy gorgeous mouth of yours ever since I first laid eyes on you. But I thought I could never have you. _That_ is why I went to Avalon. I was hoping for a distraction, something to tide me over so I could focus on my game. But then you came crashing into me looking all devastating and _lip-glossed."_

_"Arthur, I—"_

"No, you've been ignoring me for days. Let me finish." Arthur heard Em sigh, but he didn’t try to interrupt again.

"You rescued me, Em. You took me back to your flat and you were so goddamn decent, even when I screamed at you. You've been decent ever since. And I don't want to lose you as a mate, but what the fuck am I supposed to do when you go telling me about sucking Gwaine off in the school showers and whispering things about nipple licking? What am I supposed to do when you're striding around in those goofy khakis, but I know what you look like in tight trousers, or those fucking threadbare hospital pants? _Hell."_

Arthur closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

"Em, mate, just tell me you truly do think I'm hideous—that I'm not your type or you've found someone down south, or I'm not worth the bother—and I swear I'll leave you alone. But if there's even a chance? Well, I think it could be good. I know I'm a fucking tyro, but I'm a quick study, and you know I work hard."

Arthur heard nothing but strained breathing.

"Well then," he said smugly. "Sunday?"

_"No, Arthur, I… no."_

"Who is being the bloody hypocrite now?" Arthur growled. He switched off his phone and sent it spinning across the worktop in disgust.


	10. Offside

Coach, worried about distractions and fatigue after the mid-week match, had the squad booked into a Wessex hotel for Saturday night. They took the team bus down in the afternoon, had a light training session and a group meal, then retired to their rooms with strict instructions for an early night.

Arthur (as further punishment, he was sure) was put with Kay. Fortunately, Arthur had roomed with Kay for several years at the academy, so he knew to hide his mobile, iPod and toothbrush, and he always checked the toilet seat before sitting.

"You're no fun anymore, Wart," Kay said, tossing a pillow at Arthur's backside when he found and removed the overripe bananas Kay had left in the old Samba Classics he used as slippers.

"You need to come up with some new tricks, mate." Arthur picked up the pillow and slung it back towards Kay's head. He caught it one-handed.

"Hey, what colour was Hector over your temper fail?"

In addition to a storied history (Kay had unwittingly gifted Arthur with his club nickname when he'd kept adding a "W" to the "ART" written on their door whiteboard), Arthur and Kay shared an agent. They'd long ago worked out a system for judging his mood based on the particular shade of his florid face.

"We only spoke over the phone, but he definitely sounded puce."

"Puce or mauve? You know you always mix them up."

"Nah, it was only puce. Light puce at that. Once I explained why I'd done it, he relaxed. Thinks he can spin some good press out of it, actually. Youthful exuberance clause, don’t you know? Seems I'm only a hot-headed young lad, passionate about my causes."

Kay flipped the pillow up behind his head and settled back on the bed. "Hmm," he said. He picked up the TV remote and began thumbing through channels. 

Arthur stepped into his banana-free shoes and slid open the door to the small balcony.

"Are you though?" Kay said.

Arthur froze, one foot over the threshold. "Am I what?"

"Concerned with all that stuff."

Arthur looked back over his shoulder. He shrugged. "Sure. Yeah. I mean, Kay, look at the world around you. There's so much fucked up shit going on, and people are wasting their energy obsessing over where someone's parents were born or where they like to put their tackle? It's daft. Don’t you think?"

"Hey, whoa there, Wart. No need to haul out the soapbox."

"You asked."

"And I hear you, mate. I even happen to agree. I was just surprised, was all. You've never been—well, you've always been so focused on football. Like you never noticed or cared about anything outside the game."

Arthur ran his fingers absently over the edge of the door. "Yeah, well I think I'm starting to realise that these sorts of things _aren't_ outside the game. It's just that no one likes talking about it."

"Is this about that physio, Em?"

Arthur dropped his hand and turned around. "What do you mean?" he said. His didn’t recognise his own voice. He stared at the television to have somewhere to rest his eyes, but he saw nothing.

"I'm asking if this is because Em is gay—at least I'm guessing he is, way he flirts with Gwaine—and I know you two have become mates."

"So?"

"So, you fuckwad, mates stick up for mates, is what!"

"Yeah, well… yeah. That's part of it." Arthur relaxed, gave Kay a shaky smile. "But he isn't—he isn’t _flirting_ with Gwaine. They grew up together, and they just have this sort of banter, you know, based on shit from the village."

"Banter, eh? Sounds like wannabe cock-fencing to me."

Arthur rolled his eyes, turned around, and stepped out onto the balcony.

"So what do you call the spermy eyes he makes at you when he thinks you're not looking, eh?" Kay called after him. "A friendly gaze?"

"Ugh, Kay. You're wrong—so wrong. In the head." Arthur started to slide the door shut behind him.

"I'm just saying it's a good thing you're a bloke, Wart. A lass could get herself in trouble off those sort of looks!"

Arthur slid the door closed and gulped in a deep lungful of the crisp night air. He ought to be panicking, worrying about what Kay thought (or thought he'd seen), but instead he was fighting a grin, for the part of his heart that was ruled by a hormone-addled fifteen-year-old had just received the confirmation it had been waiting for: Em _totally_ thought he was fit. 

Then Arthur remembered that night in the hotel in Northlands, in January, when Kay had locked him out on the balcony for an hour, shivering in his boxer briefs. He quickly slid the door open and jammed the leg of one of the balcony chairs in the gap.

Kay was just getting up from his bed, a gleam in his eye. When he saw Arthur, he flopped back down again, scowling.

Arthur shook his head. "New tricks, mate. My balls have a long memory, and they do not forgive."

* * *

Sunday was a glorious October day. It was perfect for football, not too windy, not too bright.

Arthur could sense it from the moment he stepped onto the pitch at St. Jude's Park. He breathed in deep, smelling the grass, and his heart leapt. Leon and the rest of the lads sensed it too, if their broad smiles were anything to go by. It was their day. 

Wessex were more than up for it, but Camelot refused to be stopped. Or perhaps they just wanted it a little bit more. 

Arthur felt the energy bubbling up inside him, as if the more he ran, the more he _could_ run. He tracked back and involved himself in the midfield play so often, Leon told him to settle down and save his legs. 

Geraint couldn’t hold a candle to Elyan for speed or pure skill, but he could hold the ball up well, frustrating defenders, and Elyan had been helping him work on his overlapping play with Lance. This work paid off midway through the first half: Geraint cut into the middle, and Lance came racing up from the back. Geraint swiftly played the ball to him out wide, and Lance slid a lovely ball across the edge of the 18-yard box. The keeper had gambled, coming out to shut Lance down, and all Arthur had to do was tap the ball as it went by, redirecting its cross-field motion forward into the net. 

After they extracted themselves from the group hug, Arthur, Lance and Geraint sought out Elyan in the stands. They all three pointed at him, then Arthur gave him a thumbs-up. _That one's for you, mate._

Elyan clutched his heart and pretended to swoon, and Arthur saw all the rest of the lads around him laugh. 

Unfortunately, the glory was short-lived. Wessex quickly equalised, taking advantage of a brief spell of leniency in Camelot's back line to bury a volley in the upper right corner of the goal. Kay jumped at full stretch, but it was so well-placed, there wasn't much he could do. 

In a way it was good though, because it refocused the squad. They pulled back into a tighter shape, kept their heads up and began looking for space. Minutes before the end of the half, Arthur went on one of his crazy-making runs, drew a foul, and Tristan headed it home off the free kick. 

The mood in the dressing room at halftime was buoyant. Coach largely sat back and let Leon do the talking. The gist of his speech was that they fucking had this, if they could keep their focus and not fuck it up. Simple.

And, as it turned out, it was. 

Minutes after the whistle, Arthur smashed one in from close range after a give-and-go with Myror.

Down the other end, Wessex were awarded a penalty for a handball, but Kay was a scary mind-reading bastard and stood there like a wall as the young winger taking the kick slammed it right into his waiting hands. 

Late in the half, Leon gathered up a full head of steam after receiving a goal kick, charged through the back line with nostrils flaring, and walloped one through the keeper's outstretched hands. 

And, in the waning minutes of regulation, Arthur leapt to meet one of Gwaine's high crosses, whipped his head towards goal, and made contact. He saw the ball fly into the net as he crashed to the ground. He sat up, spitting grass, only to realise that the linesman had flagged him offside; the goal had not been awarded. 

It was bloody irritating, as it had to have been a close call (and it would have been mint to score another hat-trick on his first match back from suspension), but sulking would be selfish. The team, as a whole, had been dominant throughout, and any fears about Arthur's form had been put emphatically to rest. As he ran out the final minutes of stoppage time, Arthur knew that he couldn’t have wished for a better performance.

* * *

In the dressing room it was all hugging and hollering, singing and backslapping. Arthur grinned and bantered his way through the celebrations. He got pulled out for post-match interviews and, by the time he returned, the dressing room was nearly empty. Most of the lads had drifted off, Wessex having invited the squad up for a drink in the club bar before they had to board the bus back to Camelot.

Arthur stripped off his kit, grabbed a towel and his wash bag, and ducked into the wetroom. He still felt high off adrenaline, and a bit of something else. 

It was like there had been a lingering, ugly part of himself that thought, if he admitted to being gay or ever acted on it, then all of his talent would leave him. Today he had cast that part off, decisively. In its stead had come a thrumming, pulsing energy that had made him talk too loud and too fast in his interviews; now, it made him hyper-aware of his own hands on his skin as he stepped under the warm spray and began to wash. 

By the time he finished, he was half-hard and wishing there wasn't a four-hour coach ride between him and his flat. Maybe he'd check there was no one left in the dressing room and then have a sneaky wank in one of the toilet stalls. Arthur towelled himself off roughly. Scrubbed and steaming, he walked over to the partition wall and peered around it.

There was someone standing in the dressing room. It took a moment for Arthur to realise what he was seeing, and another for him to believe it. It was Em—Em in jeans and trainers and a red Camelot FC warm-up jacket holding a practice ball under one arm. He looked taller than Arthur remembered, but maybe it was only that he hadn’t seen him in a fortnight. His hair was plastered down over his forehead and ears, as if he'd been wearing a hat. His cheeks were ruddy, and he had the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow.

"Em?" Arthur took a step into the dressing room. 

Em's eyes widened. His gaze swept down to Arthur's feet and back up again, hovering in places. He swallowed.

Arthur remembered the towel in his hand and hastily wrapped it around his waist. "Em," he said again. His brain fired off a litany of questions— _How are you here? Why are you here? Did you change your mind about the chicken?_ —but he couldn’t get his mouth to relay them.

Em blinked. Then he puffed out his chest, tossed his head, and flashed Arthur a toothy grin.

"Hey, Princess," he said, in an uncanny impersonation of Gwaine. "I have your match ball. Thought I'd have to stove that cunt ref's teeth in to get it though. He tried to walk off with it, miserable sod."

"Em, what on earth?" Arthur said, laughing. "In case you hadn’t noticed, I didn’t get a hat-trick."

Em's grin was replaced with a bunched-up little frown. "I know," he said in his own voice. "Hence the practice ball. But it’s the nicest one. Here." He thrust the ball towards Arthur. 

Arthur stepped forward to take it. "Er, thanks." He saw Em's eyes flicker over his arms and chest and felt as if he'd stepped back under the showerhead, skin prickling and warming from the gaze.

"But it should have been match ball. I saw the replays, Arthur. You weren't offside."

Arthur shrugged. "It happens. Nature of the game." He shuffled nearer. "But Em, what are you doing here? I thought you'd be back in Camelot by now." 

"Gwen came down for the weekend to visit some mates from uni. We were going to head back this morning, but we decided to swing by here and watch the match. Which was absolutely _brilliant,_ by the way."

Arthur couldn’t help but smile at the childish delight on Em's face. "It was rather good, wasn't it?"

"Oh, come off it. You're crap at false modesty. That last header, Arthur—oh—that was a beauty." Em's eyes blazed. He took another step towards Arthur. "You just sort of floated in mid-air for a moment there." He illustrated his words with his hands, making them climb and hang in the air above Arthur's head. On the descent, he skimmed them over the crown of Arthur's head, then rested them lightly on his shoulders. 

"It was a great cross," Arthur replied, suddenly feeling shy. "Gwaine was a madman out there. All the lads were, really. Did you see Kay's save? And Lance and his C-Ron steppies? I suppose we can’t tease him about it anymore though, as they worked a treat." Arthur realised he was babbling. 

He cradled the ball awkwardly under one arm. His skin felt too warm where Em was touching it, but he wouldn’t have moved for all the world, even if all the world told him that Lionel Messi was waiting to have a drink with him in the club bar.

He tried to catch Em's eyes, but Em was watching his own hands on Arthur's skin, shifting his gaze from one to the other, as if he couldn't quite understand what they were doing there. 

"Em?" he whispered. He reached out with his free hand and placed the tips of his fingers on Em's chest, just below the club crest. Em inhaled sharply. 

He raised his chin level with Arthur's and gave him a look that, in other circumstances, would have presaged a fight. He lifted one hand to Arthur's wet hair, grasped a hank of it between forefinger and thumb, and tugged.

Arthur released a breath that he didn’t realise he'd been holding. It came out with an audible, "Unh," and Em smiled wickedly. He tugged Arthur's hair again and then dropped his hand, draping his arm over Arthur's shoulder; he slid his other hand up and rested it on the back of Arthur's neck. 

Arthur could smell the traces of Em's day on his jacket—soap or aftershave, beer, something fried in grease, time spent near someone who smoked a pipe. He had a bizarre urge to unzip the jacket and bury his face inside it, because as tantalising as Em's day smelled, Arthur wanted to smell his skin.

"Team player, eh? I like that; you'll get on well here, son." Now Em was impersonating Coach. "But there's no denying you put in more than the average shift today, Pendragon. You've earned your bonus." Em waggled his eyebrows.

Arthur laughed nervously. Em's Coach impersonation walked a fine line between funny and downright creepy, but his eyes were steady, his hands sure on Arthur's hot skin. "My bonus?" 

"Mmm, yes. Your bonus. So what'll it be, son?"

Then—and Arthur did not know how it went from a bizarre, half-hot, half-ridiculous pantomime to a sudden burning recklessness, an insistent _want_ —instead of making some quip or telling Em to fuck off and explain what he was doing here in Wessex pawing Arthur when he wouldn’t even come over for some chicken, he pressed his hand flat against Em's chest. He rubbed up and down a few times, the shiny polyester not as smooth as it looked. 

In a low voice, he said, "Can I have anything I want?"

If anyone had walked in just then, they might have still passed it off as a lark (breaking apart, laughing and calling one another names), but Em didn't move, and neither did Arthur. They just stood there, staring at one another—Em's arms draped round Arthur's shoulders, Arthur naked save for his towel and the ball, which he was now holding one-handed against his lower belly, hoping to disguise his erection.

Then Em's face grew fierce. His eyes narrowed and his lips parted. Arthur stopped breathing; in an irrational moment of panic he tried to step away, but Em gripped his neck hard and his hand was fucking strong. Arthur dropped the ball. It smacked wetly against the tiles and bounced away. Arthur closed his eyes, and suddenly there was hot breath on his ear. 

"Yes," Em said, "anything you want. But I think I know what you're going to ask for." 

Then Arthur was being propelled back, around the partition and into a corner of the wetroom. His towel was snatched away and Em was on his knees before Arthur, murmuring indecent things as he stroked his thighs and pressed his face into Arthur's crotch and just _inhaled,_ and Arthur thought that this had to be the hottest thing he had seen or felt in his entire life. Then Em looked up at him and opened his mouth in a big, slack, pink "O," and Arthur revised his opinion. 

Without breaking eye contact, Em dug in the pocket of his jeans and brought out a small green disk. He popped off the lid, and he was swiping his finger over the glistening substance within before Arthur's brain registered that this was _Em's fucking lip gloss._

Em brought the coated finger up to his open mouth and applied the gloss in a circular motion, smearing it from one corner of his upper lip across, then down around his lower lip. His finger dragged; the thin skin of his lips grew pale under the pressure of his touch before the rich red blood rushed in again behind it. 

Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat that could only properly be described as _keening._ Without thinking he contracted the muscles around the base of his cock and it twitched, leaving a wet smear high on Em's cheekbone.

"Oh god, Em," Arthur said, "I imagined, but I never—"

"Ssh," Em, said, placing the lip-glossed finger in front of his lips, then pressing it to the fuzzy patch just below Arthur's bellybutton. He nuzzled his cheek against Arthur's cock as he shoved the pot of lip gloss back in his pocket. "Just shut up and let me take care of you, alright?"

Arthur nodded, biting his lower lip to keep from saying anything that might scare Em off.

Em nudged Arthur's legs farther apart. He dragged two fingers across the flat of his tongue, coating them with spit, then slipped them behind Arthur's balls, rubbing at the sensitive skin there before continuing back. Arthur tensed, but Em only nudged the tips of his fingers up between Arthur's cheeks, stroking the pads of his fingers over his entrance. 

Em buried his face in the hair between Arthur's legs again, rubbing his face over the rough curls, tonguing the skin stretched tight over Arthur's hipbone and nipping at the ridge of muscle that sat atop it. 

"Do you even know?" he whispered between licks and bites. "Do you even know what you fucking did to me, you thoughtless cunt, laughing and telling me that you were sitting around your flat _playing—"_ He slipped the tip of one finger inside Arthur's arse. "—with your arse, while you were talking to me on the phone?"

"Em, I—"

"I said shut up!"

Then Em was sliding back Arthur's foreskin with his other hand and melting into the space between Arthur's thighs. "Jaysus, your cock, Arthur. How is even your _cock_ so fucking perfect?" he said brokenly, before feeding it down his throat. 

Arthur watched as long as he could bear it—those hands, that mouth, that dark hair and those long limbs all bent towards him, all focused on him with a single, devastating purpose—but he soon gave up and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the hard, wet tile. 

He came, silent but sobbing, down Em's throat. 

When Em rose and kissed him after, mouth still bitter with Arthur's cum, Arthur thought he might pass out from the sheer intensity of his feelings. He couldn't control his hands—they were flailing about, now scrabbling at the tiled wall, now groping Em. He realised with a pang of regret that Em was fully dressed; he hadn't even got his jeans wet, as he'd been kneeling on Arthur's towel. Arthur reached for the bulge in those jeans, but Em captured his arms and held them still. 

"You…?" Arthur managed to croak out, but Em just kissed him again, sucking at his lower lip and brushing back the locks of damp hair plastered to Arthur's forehead. 

Then he stepped back, skidding a little on the slippery floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked a wreck, his hair standing up in tufts where Arthur had unwittingly pulled on it. His eyes were half-lidded; his ears, cheeks and lips were all a ripe, bruised red. His jacket was bunched up around his waist, his erection straining the denim of his jeans.

"I'd better be off. Gwen's waiting, and they'll be looking for you in the bar. I spoke to Leon on my way in."

Arthur nodded dumbly. 

"I'll see you at training tomorrow though, yeah?"

Arthur nodded again.

Em tugged his jacket down, readjusted the crotch of his jeans, and turned. He was slip-striding away across the wetroom floor when Arthur finally found his voice. 

"Em, wait. What the hell—"

"Don't forget your ball, Arthur," Em called back over his shoulder.

Arthur drifted through the next few hours in a daze, getting by largely on the assumption that, as he'd run his arse off in the match, he was probably knackered. The only thing anchoring him to reality was his mobile, which he checked obsessively. He was riding the lift up to his flat when the text came in.

_Sleep well_

Arthur tried calling once he'd let himself in, but Em wasn't answering. "You too," he told the traitorous voicemail. "That was amazing, Em, I—yeah. Just, thank you. And I hope to pay you back someday soon. Goodnight."

He fell asleep happy and worn out—physically and emotionally—in all the best of ways, and thus did not see the text that came in at half-past two: _Please dont thank me. Shouldnt have done it._


	11. Own Goal

The squad had been given Monday morning off, so Arthur had plenty of time to ponder Em's behaviour while he tidied his flat and sorted his laundry. 

By the time he left for Knightswood, he thought he'd sussed the cause of Em's ridiculous half-arsed text regrets: It wasn't that Em regretted sucking Arthur's cock, only that he had done it in a wetroom at St. Jude's Park, where someone could have discovered them. He regretted the risk they'd taken, not the act itself. Had to be.

Because the bossy cocksucking and the filthy kissing? That had been _brilliant._

Arthur's cock began to fill just thinking about it. He'd already wanked to the mental replay once this morning, just after waking, his orgasm coming on swift and strong at the memory of Em's words, _"Shut up and let me take care of you."_

However, as incredible as the encounter in Wessex had been, Arthur thrilled to think that it was only the beginning. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on Em, actually see and taste and touch his skin, learn what he liked and exactly how he liked it. But Em was right. In future, they should probably save the heavy physical stuff for when they were in private. After all, if Arthur's fantasy life absolutely demanded it, he could probably afford to build a replica wetroom someday. And a treatment room, complete with ice bath, and—

A horn blared behind Arthur, and he realised that he was daydreaming at a traffic light that had likely turned green some moments ago. He lifted a hand briefly in apology to the cars behind him, took his foot off the brake and shifted back into gear.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Em was still in a strop over the work issue, but Arthur knew just what to do about that.

After the requisite smiling and regurgitation of sound bytes at the media barrier and a more genuine exchange of greetings with the Knightswood staff, Arthur marched into Dr. Tally's office and announced that he no longer wished to receive treatment from Em. 

Dr. Tally looked at Arthur over the rims of his spectacles. "I was under the impression that you were quite enthusiastic about Mister Emrys's methods. Do you have some complaint with your treatment?"

"Not at all," Arthur replied. "Em's been amazing. Really helpful. That's the thing though. I know what an impact he's had on my own personal training regimen—seems I was emphasising strength over flexibility. Em's helped me find the proper balance, and the therapeutic massage has done wonders for my recovery time."

"I'd say that that is a good argument for continuing your treatment, wouldn’t you?"

Arthur turned on his media grin. "No, see, my point is that now that I know what types of exercises and treatment to do, I'm fine on my own—or under the supervision of any of the other staff. Em's a specialist of sorts, right? So I feel bad taking up so much of his time, as I really think some of the other lads might benefit from his skills. An ounce of prevention, and all that."

Dr. Tally steepled his fingers, cocked his head to one side, and said, "I see. That's very… generous of you."

Arthur shrugged.

"Have you discussed this with Mister Emrys?"

"Er, no." Seeing Dr. Tally's expression, he quickly added, "Not yet. But only because he hasn’t been around, has he? Which is another reason to stop treatment. He seems likely to get called away a lot, and I wouldn’t want to become too, ah, reliant on his care." 

Dr. Tally gazed at Arthur impassively for what seemed like several long minutes. It was more difficult than Arthur had imagined, lying to a man who'd had his hands down his throat and up his kit on numerous occasions, and routinely played golf with Uther. 

"And this has nothing to do with Mister Emrys personally?"

"What? No!" Arthur said hastily. "He's become a bit of a mate, actually."

Dr. Tally sighed, unsteepled his fingers and swivelled his stool back towards his computer monitor. He tapped a few keys and scrolled down. "Well, I suppose you must do as you see fit, Arthur. Medically speaking, you are in top form, and I have no authority to force you to take extra treatment." He turned back towards Arthur. "However, to avoid any misunderstandings, I'd ask that you explain your decision to Mister Emrys in person."

"On my way now," Arthur said, grinning, as he backed out the door—straight into something solid and reeking of pipe tobacco.

"Oho! Young Pendragon, just the man I was hoping to find."

Arthur shuddered, even as he whirled round. There was only one person with that voice—like the Queen's English was being dragged through a gravel pit.

"Doctor Kilgary, my apologies. I wasn't—"

"Paying attention. Yes, I know." Dr. Kilgary grinned toothily and patted Arthur's shoulder with one liver-spotted hand. He was wearing a brown and tan tartan blazer over an olive jumper, claret-coloured corduroy trousers, and a red club bow tie. The colour combination, not to mention the fug of tobacco smoke, made Arthur's eyes swim. "That is exactly what I wished to speak to you about."

"Oh?" Arthur stepped back a pace. "Um, very well. Shall we set up an appointment then, because I'd best be off to—"

"Come with me," Dr. Kilgary said, turning and gesturing for Arthur to walk beside him. "This shouldn’t take long."

* * *

They wound their way through the labyrinth of corridors that housed the offices for the medical and coaching staff. One door had a temporary plaque that read: E. EMRYS 

Arthur stared at it as he passed, realising that, this entire time, he'd never asked nor even wondered what Em's actual first name was. He'd assumed "Em" was short for "Emrys," as everyone at the club either called him one or the other (or the ridiculous, but endearing, "Merlin").

At last they reached a door that bore Dr. Kilgary's name. He ushered Arthur into his office, which was, to Arthur's surprise, not piled here and there with brain charts, dusty tomes and old boots, but done up in Swedish modern: black and white and wood all over, with recessed lighting and the occasional spot of colour. 

Dr. Kilgary motioned Arthur over to a small table bearing a tray of what seemed, on first glance, to be a sample of green shag carpet and a slim silver lamp.

"Do you know what this is, young Pendragon?"

Arthur bent down and had a good look; it was definitely not carpet. "It appears to be grass, sir."

Dr. Kilgary clasped his hands over his stomach and beamed at Arthur. "Very good! But not just any grass. That there is a piece of the original pitch from the Citadel, from before your father bought the club and made all his… improvements."

Arthur didn't know what to say, so he simply stared at the small green rectangle. It looked perky for a piece of old sod. He wondered what Kilgary was feeding it—probably bits of former groundsmen.

Dr. Kilgary heaved a sigh. "Young man, I only show it to you because what I'm about to say is only properly understood within the context of deep time, and I've found people of your generation are typically unable to cope with such concepts without visual aids."

Arthur looked up at Dr. Kilgary, alarmed. "Sir, I—"

"Oh hush!" Dr. Kilgary broke in, holding up a hand. "Yes, I'm aware of how daft I sound. My point is that you, Arthur Pendragon, are truly the most talented player this club has produced since, well—long before your father arrived."

"Thank you, sir."

"No, no, no!" Dr. Kilgary waved his hands violently in front of his face. "Don't thank me. Because what I was going to say was that—this talent of yours? It is a terrible curse."

"Excuse me?" Arthur took a step back.

"Well, perhaps that is overstating it a bit," he admitted, "but it certainly complicates things. You'd have much more freedom if you were a lower league workhorse. As a top tier thoroughbred, you're…"

Arthur's eyes glazed over as Dr. Kilgary launched into a convoluted metaphor that seemed to involve horse racing, lawn care, astronomy, and mountain climbing.

"… top needn't be lonely; in fact, you'll never _get_ there if you don't learn to trust your teammates—your _true_ teammates, mind, who aren’t always the ones wearing your strip," he finished, blinking owlishly. "Understand?"

Arthur nodded hesitantly. "Um, I should pass the ball more? But watch who I'm passing to?"

"Oh, why do I even bother!" Dr. Kilgary said, throwing his hands up and turning towards his desk. "Go, young Pendragon. Go and muddle through your afternoon."

"Thank you, sir," Arthur said, and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

He headed straight for his usual treatment room, more intent than ever on seeing Em _alone,_ and was therefore dismayed to find Elena's light head alongside Em's dark one. They were both bent over the computer monitor.

"Good porn?" Arthur said jovially, startling the pair.

"You have some fucking nerve, Wart!" Elena said, then, at a pointed look from Em, bit her lower lip and glared. "Whatever. Gwaine's glutes need seeing to. Apparently they're insatiable. I'm off."

Dumbfounded, Arthur stood aside to let her through the doorway. As she passed, she shoved him up against the doorframe and hissed, "I always sort of liked you, Wart, despite what everyone said, but I see I was wrong. And I'm not the only one. Just remember, Em has good friends here; I'll treat you because that is what your father pays me to do, but I'll say now that I think you're a hypocrite and a coward."

She stormed off down the corridor, all furious khakis and bouncing blond hair.

"What on earth?" Arthur said, beginning to feel like he'd entered some bizarre alternate universe. "What've I done?"

Em stood and looked at Arthur with deep, mournful eyes.

"Come in and shut the door, Arthur."

Arthur stepped into the treatment room, then hesitated. "Are you sure? I—"

"Shut the door."

When he had done so, Arthur moved so he was standing beside Em.

"Em, I don't know what's going on, but I want you to know that I've taken care of everything. I told Doctor Tally that I—"

"Didn't want treatment from me anymore. Yes, Arthur, I know." Em pointed at the computer. "It turned up on your charts. Just now."

Arthur frowned. "Well, yes. I was coming to speak to you after seeing Doctor Tally, but I was waylaid and—wait, what is going on here? Why are you looking at me like that? And why was Elena so full of brass just now?"

Em sighed. "See, I tried to tell you. This is why it is a bad idea, Arthur."

_"What_ is a bad idea?" Arthur said. "I hope you're not going to try a repeat of your pathetic text, because I'm not buying it, Emrys. And I want to know your real name, by the way. Your given name."

Em's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "It's Emmett. I didn't realise you didn't—"

_"Emmett_ Emrys?"

Em nodded, regarding Arthur warily. Arthur got the feeling he'd heard all the alliteration jokes before.

"Well, Emmett Emrys," Arthur said. "What is such a bad idea?"

"Us," Em said, making a helpless hand gesture. "Arthur, I see what you were trying to do, but look at it from the other side. I'm one of the best there is at what I do. So, to the rest of the club, it looks like you have some sort of problem with me. To those who know I'm gay, well, given your recent outburst, you seem… um, a bit of an arse."

Arthur slumped back against the door. "Wait just a minute here—you're saying that Elena thinks I'm being a prick about you being _gay?"_

Em nodded.

"But that's absurd! _I'm_ bloody gay."

Em shrugged. "It is a tad surreal, I'll admit."

"Surreal? It's preposterous. I thought this was what you wanted. That you wouldn't be so damned reticent about seeing me if I wasn't your patient—client, whatever."

"Arthur, how could you think that I'd want you to give up anything, anything at all, that might make a difference in your fitness? I know how much football means to you, you've… Well, you've made it very clear."

"And I am trying to make it clear to you that _you_ mean something to me as well."

They were squared off less than a metre apart by this point, Em clutching a biro in his right hand, Arthur prodding a thick finger towards Em's chest. Arthur thought he could see the pulse in Em's neck. Under the harsh lighting his lips seemed a pale, chapped pink rather than a lush red. Every last lash and pore was visible. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

"Oh, fuck it. Onto plan B then," Arthur said, and crowded Em up against the supply cupboards. He heard a clattering sound as the biro fell to the floor. He took hold of Em's collar and tugged until their foreheads were resting against one another. 

"I'm going to kiss you now, alright?"

Em's lips were already parted, his breath coming out in shallow puffs. "Plan B is assaulting me at our place of work?"

Arthur let go of Em's collar and slipped his hands around the sides of Em's neck. "Only until you agree to see me properly outside it."

"Arthur, you don't know—" Em closed his eyes. 

Arthur studied the exquisite, unhappy lines of Em's face. He pressed a chaste kiss to the faint crease just off his lips, where the smile lines would be, had he been smiling.

"What I'm doing? No, not entirely, but is that such a bad thing?" He kissed the high ridge of Em's cheekbone. "What I'm asking? I think I do. And I know it is a lot, but maybe it will be worth it." 

Em's eyes opened—a steel-blue challenge—and Arthur drew back a little. 

"But do you really know what you want?" Em whispered fiercely. "I'm sorry, but I won’t be your bloody gay teething ring, Arthur. I won't deny I'm attracted to you, but I can't… I couldn't stand it if you—"

Arthur cut off Em's words with a kiss, daring a little flick of tongue at the end. "Em," he said after he'd pulled away, "I decided I was going to be a world-class footballer when I was eleven, and I've worked steadily at it ever since. Now I've decided I want _you,_ and I'm fully prepared to put in the same amount of effort." 

Em drew a ragged breath. Arthur spread his legs a little so he could press in closer, his entire body flush with Em's.

"I may be inexperienced, Em, but I'm not a baby. I'm not experimenting, and I certainly don’t intend to mess you about." He raised his hands and began carding them tentatively through Em's hair. It was thick and warm and slightly sweaty beneath the shampoo shine; Arthur was willing to bet he'd washed it only the night before, when he'd returned from Wessex.

"I may not be able to go all the places you and your friends go," he continued, "and we'll have to be discreet for now, but I want us to be real."

Em's eyes fluttered closed. He tilted his head back, butting it against Arthur's hands. "Real? What does that even mean to you, Arthur? You play football for a living; your entire existence is unreal."

Arthur stilled his hands and withdrew them from Em's scalp. "Well for starters, you cocksucking ingrate, it means that you will agree to come over for some goddamn chicken this weekend." 

Em released a breathy laugh, opened his eyes and smiled shyly.

Arthur darted in for another kiss. "And we will watch something stupid on the telly," he murmured against Em's lips. "Then I will take off all my clothes. Yours too. All the clothes will have to go. Then you will…"

"Yes?" Em's voice was barely audible.

Arthur turned his head, placing his lips near Em's ear. "Then you will fuck me," he whispered, and felt Em's entire body come alive beneath him. 

"You will take care of me, and you'll teach me how to take care of you. In a perfect world, when we are too exhausted to take any more care, we'll snack on foods on the club nutritionist's naughty list, get the crumbs all over my big gorgeous bed, and then I'll discover whether or not you snore. And whether or not I give a fuck."

Arthur could feel Em's cock thickening against his belly, could feel the singing tension in his limbs. His own heart was pounding a crazy rhythm inside his chest…

Or maybe that was the door?

"Princess! You in there? I want a word."

Arthur pulled away from Em with a little growl of frustration and looked balefully at the door. 

Em, eyes glazed, shook his head as if to clear it. He looked at Arthur wordlessly for a moment, then lay a hand on his arm.

"Why don’t we start with the chicken—this Saturday, maybe—and take it from there, alright?"


	12. Support

Gwaine, as was immediately apparent, had abandoned his massage to come give Arthur a piece of his mind. His hair was gathered into a topknot, and he was clad only in ankle socks and a black jockstrap. When he turned to close the door behind him, Arthur saw that his back and arse cheeks were still glistening with liniment. 

Arthur heard Em swear softly, and he sympathised. A greased-up, mostly nude Gwaine was a sight to behold. Arthur would probably fancy him if he didn’t already think of him as an irritating older brother.

"What is it, Orkney?" Arthur said, trying to sound bored. Or at least as if he hadn’t just been revelling in the warm, hard press of Em's body all down his front (revelling in the fact that Em had bloody said _yes_ ). "Practising for Tristan's stag night? Where are your tits?" 

Gwaine rounded on Arthur, face pinched in anger. "Elena just told me what you did to Em, you slippery two-faced cunt."

"I haven't done anything to Em," Arthur protested. _But I have plans._ He took a step towards Gwaine, looked him up and down. "And who are you to be calling anyone slippery?" he scoffed. "Bet if I knocked you over you'd slide down the corridor like a fucking eel on ice, mate."

"Just you try it, Princess, and I'll—"

"Hey," Em cut in. "Would you two put yours claws up already? I thought _I_ was the aggrieved party here."

Gwaine shut his mouth, lifting his hands in surrender. 

Arthur took an exaggerated step back and leaned against the treatment table, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced at Em, uncertain. 

"Wait, you're not really aggrieved, are you?"

Em flashed Arthur a wry smile. "Mildly. But I have a feeling I'll get over it. By Saturday night, I should think."

"By—oh, _oh."_ Arthur ducked his head to hide the rush of blood to his face and no doubt soppy grin. When he dared look up again, Gwaine was staring at them, brows knit in puzzlement.

Em cleared his throat. "Er, Gwaine, what _exactly_ did Elena say?"

"That Princess here had decided that he didn’t want your bum-grubbing hands touching him and made some scene about it to Tally."

"Bum-grubbing?" Em exclaimed. Arthur started coughing violently. 

Gwaine shrugged. "Her words. No offence intended, mate." 

Em shook his head, eyes merry. "I'm far more impressed than I am offended." He filled a cup with water from the sink, handed it to Arthur, and began rubbing soothing circles on his back. "Ellie is a linguistic wonder. I thought I'd heard it all." Arthur had stopped coughing by now; Em gave his back one last pat, then perched on the stool in front of the computer. "But she gets a little carried away sometimes. Arthur here is completely on board with my bum-grubbing."

Arthur started coughing again. Gwaine's eyes went wide.

"In fact, we had a nice discussion about it after his press conference last week, and yesterday I stuck my head in after the match to thank him personally for standing up to homophobia in the sport. Right, Arthur?"

Arthur gulped down the remaining water in the cup and staggered over to the sink to refill it. He downed the second cupful and turned back to Em and Gwaine, a manic smile plastered on his face. "Sorry, I had a tickle in my throat, and it made me cough."

"Arthur?" Em repeated.

"What? Oh, yes—Em's really been opening my eyes to the issues. Faced by gays in sport. Last great prejudice and all, well except for the racism and the sexism and the, uh…" Arthur circled a hand in the air, trying to think of other isms.

Gwaine regarded him warily and turned towards Em. "So then what is Elena on about? She said you seemed really narked when she left you."

"Oh, yes, well—" Em bent down and retrieved the biro from where it had fallen on the floor. He stared at it intently, then busied himself trying to slot it into a club-branded half-pint glass already bristling with writing implements. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he looked over at Arthur.

"I think I'll let Arthur explain."

Arthur glared. Em gave a minuscule shrug of his shoulders. He stabbed the biro into a thicket of pencils and turned to give Arthur his full attention.

Arthur sighed.

"It was just a misunderstanding, Gwaine. I thought I was doing Em a favour by freeing him up to work more with the rest of you lot. Didn’t realise how it would look given recent events."

"But why was Em so upset?" Gwaine said, jutting his chin in the "let's have you, if you dare" gesture that had got him into more than one scrap.

"Oh, because he… he disagrees with my assessment of my condition," Arthur said. "And I went over his head. I really should have spoken to him before I went to see Doctor Tally, and then I was coming here to—but then Doctor Kilgary caught me and dragged me off to look at some old grass and—oh, christ, this sounds utter shite, even to me." Arthur rubbed his forehead with his knuckles.

"It fairly reeks," Gwaine said, "like last week's cabbage." 

Arthur saw Em's eyes go soft. A pleased smile flitted across his face. "You stole that from my mam."

Gwaine nodded, grinning. "Well, she said it to me often enough." Em chuckled and gazed fondly at Gwaine, and Arthur felt a pang of envy. He wanted to know things about Em's mother that earned him looks like that.

"Now," Gwaine said, all business once more, "what the fuck is really going on here lads? I know I'm pretty, but I'm not dumb." He positioned himself in front of the door. "No one is going anywhere until I have the knowledge. And Em, if he _has_ done something and you're afraid to speak out because he's a Pendragon, I'll—"

"It's nothing like that," Em said firmly. "I swear." He looked at Arthur with wide, clear eyes. And waited.

Arthur stared back, letting himself be drawn into the gaze and even drown in it a little, because it kept the panic at bay. "Em, should I… it would be easier just to tell him, wouldn't it?"

"It's entirely up to you, Arthur. But you know my thoughts."

"Tell me what?" 

"Shit, I don’t know how—" Arthur pushed off from the counter and sank into the padded chair across from the treatment table. 

Em rose and joined him, standing at his side. They weren't touching, but just having Em there, his hand resting near Arthur's shoulder, was calming. He glanced up and nodded his thanks.

In return, Em gave him a look of such unabashed approval (with a hint of something else, too, something fierce and hot that made Arthur's hindbrain sit up and take notice) that Arthur completely forgot where he was. He forgot that he was concerned over how fast his layers of armour were being stripped away. He forgot that he was worried about telling Gwaine—forgot that a moment ago he had not physically known _how_ to do so—and so simply said, "Gwaine, I'm gay."

Gwaine laughed. "But of course you are, Princess. And I'm the bloody Pope."

"Gwaine, don't be an arse," Em said quietly. "He's serious. And he only started admitting it out loud a little over a month ago, and it's a kind of a big fucking deal, so be nice."

Gwaine stared at Arthur, mouth hanging open. "Really? You're gay? As in _gay_ gay?"

Arthur nodded, jaw clenched.

"Like, all the way bum-sex gay, or do you still like—"

"Gwaine." There was a warning note in Em's voice. He shook his head and mouthed, "Not appropriate."

Gwaine smiled sheepishly. "Sorry." Suddenly he clamped his legs together, cupped his hands in front of his crotch and said, "Jaysus, Em, and here you said it wasn't catching! Eyes off the lads before they get bent."

_"Gwaine!"_

Gwaine burst out laughing and relaxed his posture. "Just messing about, Em. So that's what all this was about, some kind of handbags? What'd he do, try and chat up your fella?"

"Gwaine, so help me I will put itching powder in your jock for the rest of the season if you do not—" 

"Em's been helping me," Arthur cut in. "We've become… well, mates outside of work, and I just didn't want it to be weird for him, having to put up with me all the time here as well. And maybe I panicked that people might get the wrong idea. But I think we've sorted it, yes?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at Em, who smirked.

"I'll just need that formal written statement about you being an annoying, simple-minded twat and we're golden, as far as I'm concerned."

Gwaine laughed. "I'll see that he does it, too." He leered at Arthur. "Mate, I confess I did _not_ see that one coming, but it does explain one or two things."

"Oh?" Arthur said tersely. 

Gwaine hooked Em's rolling stool with one foot and dragged it nearer the chair. Em just managed to throw a towel over it before Gwaine plonked himself down, rested his hands on his knees and leaned in.

"Yes, like the fact that no mater how many fit, dripping dolls I throw your way, you never go off with any of them, or even take their numbers. I wrote it off as you being a fussy bitch, but mate, I pull top totty, and no one can possibly be _that_ fussy after four pints, let alone six."

Gwaine reached out and prodded Arthur's thigh. Arthur tensed and slapped Gwaine's hand away. "What the fuck?"

_"Then_ there is the fact that you're wound up tighter than a nun's cunt. Sure, we've all got a bit of temper in us, but you take it to a whole new level. You push yourself so hard, Princess. And sure you joke around with the squad, big smiles for the press and the kiddies and all, but you never let anyone all the way in. I'll bet half the lads don’t even know where you live."

"So I'm private. I don't see what that has to do with being gay."

"It's not so much the being gay as the _hiding_ it—the bottling yourself up. It's clearly been making you bloody miserable. I always wondered why you only ever seemed happy on the pitch."

"Yeah, well, I _am_ happiest when I'm playing."

"That's because you're not getting any, am I right?" Gwaine winked.

"I don't see how that is any of your—"

"Nil, zip, zero, zilch," Gwaine crowed. "I thought so." He leaned back, shaking his head pityingly. "Em, I thought you were helping him. Haven't you taught him anything? Taken him out with your lot, shown him the sights? Found him some gorgeous thing in leather chaps to suck his cock and call him Daddy?"

"Oh my god, Gwaine, you are hopeless," Em said, shaking his head. Arthur noticed that his cheeks were burning a bright pink. "That's not even—"

"Gwaine?" Arthur said.

"Yes, Princess?'

"Shut your fucking cake-hole."

Gwaine sighed. "Fine, but I'm just saying—"

"Now."

Gwaine pursed his lips. He pantomimed locking them and throwing away the key. 

Arthur ran his hands though his hair. He'd only been in the treatment room for twenty minutes or so, but it felt like he'd been trapped for hours. 

Then he felt Em brush his fingers against the back of his neck, and his frustration melted away. He thought of the couple in the restaurant—the way the younger man had soothed his partner's distress with little touches here and there, almost as automatic as breathing—and felt a wild spark of happiness.

"Look, Gwaine, I'm flattered you're so interested in my sex life, but mainly what I need from you is your support—ideally your _silent_ support. I can’t ask you to lie for me, but I'd appreciate it if you'd be discreet, at least for now. Let me speak to the lads in my own time. Can you do that?"

"Gwaine's good with secrets," Em said slyly. "Aren’t you, stud?"

Gwaine's eyes bulged. "Oh my god, Em, you did _not_ tell Princess about… Oh, you did, didn’t you, you filthy whore!"

Em mock-pouted. "Sorry, Ken Doll, nothing I could do. Dishing on first encounters, sharing our coming out stories—it's a requirement. As stated in the gay manual."

"There's a _manual?"_

Arthur and Em burst out laughing. And it felt so good, laughing with Em about something like that. 

"No, but seriously," Gwaine said. " 'Cause I reckon it'll have ace cocksucking tips, yes? Handy to pass out to the ladies. Would they fit on a business card, do you think?"

"Gwaine, if there is a filthy whore in this room, it is you," Em said.

Gwaine put his hand over his heart and bowed his head. "An honour, Emrys, coming from you." He scooched forward until he was knee to knee with Arthur. "And Princess—wait, can I not call you Princess anymore?" His face creased with worry.

"Told you!" Em said, and Arthur laughed again.

"No, it's fine. But I'm still coming after your hair if you stencil it on my locker." Arthur nudged Gwaine's knee with his own without thinking, froze, and then relaxed as he realised that Gwaine hadn't flinched or pulled away. 

"Gwaine, I don’t want you to treat me any differently. I just, well, this is part of who I am, and I think of you like a brother, so… I just want us to be all right."

Gwaine looked bashful all of a sudden. He jostled Arthur's knee, reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Same here, Princess," he said. Then quickly added, "Not that I'm bent, mind, but that I think of you like a brother."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "And here I was thinking you'd agreed to try and think before opening that mouth of yours."

"Well, what I was _going_ to say, before Em raised the spectre of ancient sexscapades, was that of course I'll keep quiet until you're ready. And the gay thing? Grand, in my book. Love is love and cum is cum and all that. I'm more offended by celibacy, actually. Now _that's_ unnatural."

"Not everyone goes through life cock first," Em chided. "Plenty of people don't need, or even want, that type of—"

Em's lecture was interrupted by a pounding at the door. 

"Em! Em! Em! Have you seen see that big lump of dumbmuscle Ork—" The door burst open and Elena rushed in. "—ney. Um, hello and whatthefuck?"

Gwaine swivelled round on the stool, spreading his legs. "Hiya, El. Did you miss me?"

Arthur slumped back in the chair, trying not to laugh at the look on Elena's face.

Em held up his hands. "Alright, kittens, I'm only going to say this once. Arthur is not doing and never has done anything to offend my delicate sensibilities apart from having crap taste in music and whiffy feet, and in that he's no worse than the rest of you lot, so don’t start kicking his ankles on my behalf. Now, anyone who isn’t me needs to get the fuck out of my treatment room in three."

Arthur was the last to clear out. He lingered in the doorway a moment.

"So, Saturday?" he said casually. "Me and my crap music and my whiffy feet?" Em was already back at the computer, deft fingers flying over the keys. 

"Mmm," he said absently. But he looked up just before Arthur slipped away, eyes shining, and nodded. "Saturday," he said. Then, "Well done, you."

The rest of the squad didn’t have a prayer in five-a-side that afternoon, because Arthur felt too good to be humble. Gwaine mostly behaved himself, though he did comment rather loudly at one point that being _outside_ seemed to agree with Arthur. 

Even that didn't phase Arthur though, because as he dribbled and feinted, spun round his teammates and sent ball after ball spinning between the cones, the drumbeat of _Saturday, Saturday, Saturday_ pounded away in his brain. And, for once in his life, he wasn't thinking about the upcoming match.


	13. Man Marking

Arthur only survived the week thanks to his ability for self-discipline.

At Knightswood, he kept his head down. He trained hard and responded to Gwaine's subtle teasing by feigning ignorance and gleefully outcompeting him in drills. He suffered Elena's suspicious glares in silence. (Elena apparently remained unconvinced that Arthur had not behaved boorishly in some fashion; more than once, passing him in the corridors, she'd made the "I have my eye on you" gesture, much to Gwaine's delight.)

Em, naturally, was the greatest test of Arthur's self-discipline. Arthur had expected there to be a certain undercurrent of tension to their interactions, an increased formality to compensate for their transgressions, so he was nearly undone by the ease of it all. Em was as friendly and appropriate as ever. The only difference was that his eyes no longer slid away from Arthur's but met them head-on—sometimes frank, sometimes fond, but always focused, always right _there,_ watching Arthur.

It was wonderful. And maddening. By the time he returned to his flat each day Arthur was bodily exhausted, but his mind would be buzzing with anticipation.

There, as he prepared dinner, he'd allow himself to relive the taste of Em's sweet-sour mouth in the wetroom and recall the surprising strength of his hands. He'd allow himself to think about all the ways those hands could bring relief, whether through gentle pressure or rough invasion.

His kitchen cupboards reminded him of pinioning Em in the treatment room (the lean, hard, warm length of him not giving in but _pushing back_ ). His sofa reminded him of the booth at Avalon, of the way Em had taken care of him that night, but teased him just enough so that he didn’t feel pitied.

When Arthur watched television, he barely saw what was happening onscreen, too busy replaying all of Em's facial expressions in his mind. His features could go from teasing to earnest (or innocent to wicked) in no time at all, and for the life of him Arthur could not decide which look he liked best. They all suited him equally.

Arthur knew he was mooning like an adolescent, but he did not care. Because he hadn’t had a proper adolescence, had he?

He'd had hopeless crushes on mates before. He'd had bouts of angry lust directed at nameless men seen on the street, or up on a screen. In his late teens, he'd had vigorous sex with the type of bold, clever, glittering girls who were happy to take charge, following their lead and hoping for an epiphany. (They'd never complained, but they'd rarely come back for seconds. Arthur had soon stopped responding to the signals, convincing himself that sex was better solo, or done without.)

This thing with Em? It was potentially the payback for all his thwarted crushes and unsatisfied lusts, rolled into one. And, if that blowjob was anything to go by, it promised numerous epiphanies. So while a part of Arthur yearned for Saturday, he knew he could stand the wait. He could spend his days with football and his nights with his imagination, comforted by the knowledge that the reality was not far off.

* * *

Friday night, as Arthur was whisking eggs for an omelette, his mobile rang. He was surprised to see Em's number. They'd already made arrangements for Saturday night—Arthur flushed as he typed his address into Em's phone, because Em hadn’t relinquished it, merely held it out on his palm, facing Arthur, and Arthur had had to grasp his hand and hold it steady as he pressed the keys—and Em knew Arthur liked a quiet, early night before match days.

He felt a twinge of fear that Em was calling to back out, but he pushed it aside. He probably just wanted to wish Arthur luck against Cumbria.

Grinning, he snatched up the phone and answered with, "So how do you want it, Emrys?" and was met with a spluttering sound. "Your chicken, I mean," he added.

There was a laugh, a throaty, gurgling _woman's_ laugh, and Arthur nearly dropped his phone into the raw egg froth.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

_"It’s Freya. I've been trying to get at Em's phone for days, but he hangs onto it so tightly you’d think it was his cock. Or your cock, for that matter."_

"Um." Arthur wasn't sure what to make of that. "How did you get a hold of it then? And why are you—shit, is Em all right? Did something happen to him?"

Freya didn’t answer right away (he might have heard a sigh, but he wasn't sure) so he said, "Hello? Freya? Where's Em? What's going on?"

_"Oh my god. You have it bad, don’t you, and who could resist that kind of shine? No wonder the poor thing is blundering into coatracks."_

"I don't—"

_"Look, Sporty Spice, Em's in the shower and for once he forgot and left his phone out. He refuses to let me speak to you for some un-fucking-fathomable reason, even though I made you that genius disguise, not to mention keeping my big gay mouth shut about your big gay shame."_

"Which I greatly appreciate, by the way, but why are you calling?"

_"Because Em's not break-and-buy, that's why! If you fuck him over, I'm the one who has to mop up, and I loathe that part. So I thought I should gift you some knowledge."_

Arthur rolled his eyes and smiled. "Is this the part where you warn me that he has some weird hang-up about, like, root vegetables or something and threaten my balls with a crimping iron?"

_"Whoa, what kinky channels are you watching? No, babygay, this is the part where I tell you that I'm concerned, because Em has been a headcase ever since he got back from London. Monday night he caused an outerwear avalanche in the entry hall—ruining like three weeks' work, mind—and didn’t even give a toss. Just bagsied Will's car for Saturday, and asked had I seen some dickwad-brand jumper that was probably machine-knit by a twelve-year-old girl in a sweatshop for a fraction of what he paid for it, and he knows how much that shite upsets me. Anyway—"_

Arthur's smile grew. Freya's words were abrasive and her tone exasperated, but he admired her passion. And her underlying message was not unwelcome. Apparently, beneath that calm, efficient exterior, Em was just as keyed up as he was.

_"—I don’t know what you've done to him, but one minute he's ambling around like a drunken moocow, and the next he's smothering himself with sofa cushions and bashing his head against the cupboards. It's upsetting my lady friends, Sporty, and I can't have that. Bad for the vagina."_

"Look, that's very, ah, interesting, but—"

_"And now_ here _is the part where I threaten you,"_ Freya interrupted. _"If you are messing him about, so help me I will pull your guts out through your virgin arse with my hooks, then crochet you a rainbow body bag, understood?"_

Arthur shuddered, unconsciously clenching the muscles in his arse. "Freya, look, I wouldn't. I'm not—that is, I'm serious about this. I'm serious about Em."

_"Yeah, well, you say that now, dollface, but all I'm hearing my end is how big a deal this is for you, how much this could cost_ you, _and I just fucking hope that I'm not the only one worrying about what it might cost_ Em. _He wasn't made to be somebody's backroom secret."_

"And I don’t want him to be," Arthur said testily, "but you've got to understand that it may take some time to—oh, why I am even trying to explain this to you! This is between Em and I, alright? I know you’re his mate, and I appreciate mates sticking up for one another, but he's a grown man. So let him make his own decisions."

Freya laughed. _"Oh, I can see why he likes you."_

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur demanded.

_"Look,"_ Freya sighed, _"don't go all Raging Bull on me here; I'm trying to help. Some men tend to get the wrong idea, is all—especially your sort. Think just 'cause he's a bit twiggy that he can't handle himself. Or wants bossing. He hates that shit."_

Arthur recalled Em's vice grip on his neck in the dressing room, the fierce look in his eyes, and the unrelenting suction of his mouth around his cock. He also thought of the way Em dealt with the squad, playful, but firm. Sure, he might be lanky, but…

"Of _course_ Em can handle himself," he said, affronted. "And I've no interest in—"

_"Shitestick! The shower's just switched off. I've got to go. Oh, but Arthur?"_

"Yes?" he ground out. He was getting tired of being interrupted.

_"He can be weird sometimes. Aloof. But he's into you. So if you want him, don't let him pull that shite. And don't fuck it up."_

Arthur opened his mouth to say that he didn't intend to, thank you very much, but Freya had hung up.

* * *

Saturday started out feeling like a bit of a holiday. The fine weather had held, they were back home at the Citadel, and, frankly, Cumbria were not known for their goal-scoring prowess. Add to that the fact that they had a terrible away record, and Arthur could well understand the anticipatory buzz coming from the stands. Gilli was at his finest, capering up and down the touchlines in his Gary the Gold Dragon mascot suit, tossing club rosettes to the children and making the parents howl with his attempts at dancing to the bass-heavy anthems blaring out from the tannoy.

However, it soon became apparent that the Wyverns had come, not to play, but to _not_ lose, which meant parking the bus at the back and clogging the midfield. It was the type of play that drove strikers like Arthur spare—men sticking close as shadows, dogging Arthur's runs and taking him on two or three to one if he actually had the ball.

Camelot were given no space to build, no room to run. With skill they could still string passes through the gaps, but more often than not the man with the ball wound up on the receiving end of a crunching tackle. It was the kind of match where the lads stopped calling, "Man on!" because it was pretty much just assumed that, if you had the ball, some Wyvern was sure to be gnawing at your heels.

Arthur gritted his teeth, resigned himself to ninety minutes of hard graft, and promised himself that he wouldn't lose his temper. Half an hour in, his resolve was tested by a particularly rough—though legal—challenge that left him winded and writhing on the pitch, clutching his ankle.

"Where do you feel it, Arthur?"

Arthur looked up into Em's looming face, all keen eyes and concerned forehead, and suddenly felt rather sheepish. And rather less like punching something.

He sat up. "In my arse. Where do you think?" he said, gingerly extending his throbbing ankle for inspection.

Em grinned. "Note to self: Subject retains juvenile sense of humour. Obviously not as poorly as he makes out."

Then he busied himself gently palpating Arthur's ankle, grasping his booted foot and manipulating it, eyes fixed on Arthur to ascertain his level of discomfort. The ref came over to chivvy them off the pitch, but Em was magnificent.

"No harm done. He's good to go with a little magic spray."

"I am?" Arthur said, while the ref frowned and pointed to the touchline.

"Off for treatment. You know that," he said, and turned to listen to something coming in through his headset.

Quick as a flash Em had Arthur's sock down and was blasting his ankle with a can of topical coolant that he'd whipped out of his bag. "All done," he announced, serving the ref one of his blinding grins. Out of the side of his mouth, he whispered, "Get up and walk it off. You'll be grand in a minute, you big infant."

At the half Em had another look, but Arthur felt fine to continue, and Em declared that he had only bruised his fibular malleolus, which earned him jibes of, "Speak English, man," and, "But will he live?"

The one bright spot, when teams came to play as Cumbria had, was that there was no need to puzzle over their tactics. Coach, his face pinched and craggy with disdain, had been able to spend much of the first half mapping out a strategy to combat the Wyverns' stubborn defence. He asked Arthur point-blank if he was prepared to run his arse ragged with little chance of joy in return, or if he wanted to come off.

Arthur was kind of insulted that he'd even had to ask.

* * *

Their hard work paid off in the sixtieth minute, when Arthur managed to win an indirect kick thirty or so yards out. Only Percy and Bors stayed back, and young Gareth, left practically unattended by Cumbrian standards, was able to snag the lofting ball with his chest, direct it down to his feet and smash a hard, honest defender's shot between the keeper's legs while everyone else was busy marking Myror, Tristan and Gwaine.

Gareth, somewhat stunned by his success, turned to look at Arthur with a gobsmacked expression. Arthur mock-bowed to Gareth and gave him a thumbs-up. "Well done, son!" he hollered as Gareth was mobbed by the rest of the team. Gareth struggled free and jogged over to Arthur, flinging himself at Arthur's chest and gripping him in a fierce hug.

"That was fucking ace, mate," he cried. "Absolute fucking ace! And me mam's here watching today. Ta!" He released Arthur and ran over to the touchline, screaming, "That one's for you, mammy!"

Arthur followed Gareth with his eyes and saw Em, tall and red-jacketed and beaming, one arm slung around Elena's shoulder. His dark head was tilted to the opposite side, bending an ear towards Elyan, who had risen from his seat and was standing on his good leg, gesticulating with his crutches.

It might have been Arthur's imagination, but he thought he saw Em wink.

The goal made all the difference, for it lifted Camelot and forced Cumbria to try and attack. Percy and the lads at the back enjoyed getting in some hard tackles of their own, and Kay, who probably could have strung a hammock in goal and had a kip during the first half, finally had a use for his hands.

In the remaining half-hour, Arthur helped thwart a couple of Cumbrian attacks and headed a dangerous ball out of the box off a corner kick. When the whistle blew without Cumbria getting an equaliser, he felt genuine pride in how he'd played. He hadn't put his stamp on the game as a goalscorer, which for a striker was always a concern, but he had done his best for the team.

And he could admit, after being on the receiving end of Gareth's joy—and now pinned under the weight of Kay’s ecstatic relief—that maybe that was more satisfying. Maybe.

"Urrrgoffme, you ape!" Arthur grunted, kicking out and trying to dislodge the big keeper, who had tackled him rugby-style and was sprawled across his back. He’d thrown his gloves into the stands and was drumming the top of Arthur’s head with his bare knuckles.

Kay laughed. "Wart, this head—this _head!_ Not useless after all. Hector will be so proud."

"I’m serious, Kay. You weigh a fuckton. You want to explain to him that you broke me? Deep purple, mate, seven shades of."

"Oh, lah. Probably eight." Kay rolled off and offered Arthur a hand up. "I’m buying your head a pint though, courtesy of my clean sheet fund. You are coming out tonight with the lads, yes? Bunch of us are going to The Mill."

"Um…"

"Sans wags," Myror chipped in with a wink. "So no spying eyes."

"Speak for yourself, mate," Leon said with a guilty expression. "Morgana’s coming."

There was a chorus of groans, and Kay shook his head. "My good sir, what in the name of Christendom compelled you to—"

"Don’t," Arthur cautioned. "Just don’t go there. I know I’ve never made an issue of it, but she is my sister, yeah? She has more brain cells in one little finger than our entire first eleven, and she can drink the lot of you under a table. Plus she'll keep the worst of the wagabees away. You'll be better off. Trust me."

Leon gave Arthur a grateful smile and Arthur, surprised at his own vehemence in Morgana’s defence, nodded awkwardly.

There was a brief silence, then Kay said, "Well fuck, Wart, no offence intended. And so be it. Morgana has official lad status, as of now. You can tell her yourself."

"I’m not sure she’ll be entirely pleased about that," Leon muttered, just as Arthur announced, "Actually, I’ve other plans, but give her my especial regards."

"Ooer, Wart. Hot date?" Kay said, grinning. "It’s about time."

Just then Gwaine, who’d been catching up with a mate from the Cumbrian side and had only recently joined the celebrations in front of the Citadel Kop, clapped Arthur round the shoulder and announced, "Sorry, lads. Princess and I won’t be joining you. Longstanding _Pro Evo_ showdown. Plus I promised Leon a night out with his lady without little bro looking on. So you’ll just have to try and pull without his pretty arse. Face. Whatever."

Arthur didn’t honestly know if he wanted to punch Gwaine or kiss him, but the ruse worked. It didn’t save Arthur from ridicule, but it did save him from further questions. In the dressing room, Arthur mouthed silent thanks and Gwaine, when the opportunity presented itself, sidled up and said, "If they ask on Monday, I reamed your arse."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but Gwaine added, "At _Pro Evo,_ Princess. Not that you’re not a handsome devil, but—"

"You like a bit of tit to grab onto?" Arthur whispered viciously.

Gwaine lifted an eyebrow. "Christ, he _did_ give you all the gory details." He glanced over his shoulder, to where Em was swabbing at something on Percy's calf. Arthur followed his gaze, all too easily mesmerised by the sight of Em's blue nitrile-clad fingers and pout of concentration. 

_Those lips,_ Arthur thought. _A whole evening of those lips, and all that fucking focus. I wonder what he'll look like when he comes, if he'll make—_

"So, did you finally let him fix you up, or are you two going cruising?" Gwaine turned his head back to Arthur, smirking. "I hope for your sake his standards have improved, or you'll be copping off in some dodgy…" Gwaine trailed off, staring.

Arthur tore his gaze from Em and hastily resumed doing up his shirt buttons, but there was nothing he could do about his furious blush. 

Gwaine was silent for a moment, his expression turning to one of absolute shock and wonder. Then he burst out laughing. Loudly. Several of the lads looked over and Gwaine, still chuckling, leaned in and whispered, "I’m a right thicko, aren’t I, not picking up on that? Just mates my jolly _arse._ Oh, my poor Princess, I’m not sure you’re in his league, not in this. But I wish you all luck. And yes, I _will_ start cracking heads if it ends in tears."


	14. Man On

Despite what Morgana had told Arthur when he was five, he hadn't been raised by wolves. He hadn’t so much "dated" as gone out in large mixed groups (and later wound up back in hotel rooms and student bedsits), but he had basic manners, and he'd watched television. He knew how it was done.

He'd loaded the loose bog rolls onto the spindles in the bathrooms, changed the bed linens, and made sure nothing too embarrassing was visible in the common areas. He'd prepped most of the meal and changed his shirt twice. He’d paced the length and breadth of his flat.

When security rang up to announce a Mr. Emrys, all that was left to do was remember to take off the bar towel he used as an apron and check his teeth in the entry hall mirror.

Whatever was supposed to happen next fled his mind the moment he opened the door, however, because there was Em—damp-haired, freshly shaven and wearing a soft-looking grey jumper that clearly, shamelessly loved him. His brown canvas trousers weren't skin-tight, but they fit well, and he had on those fucking boots from the club. The leather ones with all the buckles. His lips shone with just a hint of gloss.

"Hey," Arthur managed.

"Hey yourself," Em replied, picking up a large sport duffle and hefting it onto his shoulder. It clanked. "I swear this isn’t what it looks like."

"Ah, what does it look like?" Arthur stepped back to allow Em inside.

"Bomb. I think the bloke in security suspected me of being a rabid Mercian supporter until I showed him my ID."

"I did put you on my clear list."

Em set the duffle down in the hall and turned to face Arthur. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I know. I saw. I feel very privileged."

Arthur's clear list was not long; it could probably fit on a bar napkin. Embarrassed, he muttered, "Yeah, well, mostly I meet up with the lads elsewhere."

"Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you should close the—"

"Oh, right!" Arthur hastily closed the door. He leaned his head against it for a brief moment, trying to regain his equilibrium. He turned round to find Em watching him, the fond almost-smile still there. He took a deep breath.

"So, what is it then? Staying the weekend?" Arthur was trying for cheeky rather than hopeful, but he didn’t think he quite pulled it off.

Em blinked, but his smile didn’t fade. "Hostess gifts. Mostly from the womenfolk. I was forced."

"That's one massive box of Ferrero Rocher, mate."

Em laughed. "If only. No, I'm afraid it's—oh, fuck."

He moved forward and was suddenly in Arthur's personal space, his eyes roving all over Arthur's face and chest, and lower. "God, Arthur. You are… hello."

"Hello, Emmett," Arthur whispered, arousal spiking in his veins. Because, yes, who really cared about hostess gifts? Here was Em and they were alone at last at last _at last_ with no one to interrupt them and there was no reason why they couldn't just—

Arthur gripped Em's shoulders just as Em shoved his hands into Arthur's hair.

The jumper _was_ soft, but the flesh beneath it was firm. As was the doorknob digging into Arthur's hip, but that didn't matter because Em was tugging the roots of his hair gently and murmuring more hellos as he snuffled Arthur's neck and pressed kisses to his temples and jaw.

Arthur groaned. He pulled Em closer and spread his legs so Em could stand between them. Eyes closed, he turned his head, rubbing his cheek against Em's, seeking lips on lips. The first kiss was misaligned and wet, and Arthur gasped into it. Once they'd found a proper seal, Arthur slid his hands down, grasped Em's arse, and hauled him forward.

A small part of Arthur's brain protested that dry-humping one's guest in the entry hall wasn't the proper way to begin a date, but he paid it no mind. It was Em who, after just barely licking into Arthur's mouth, then sucking on his lips, finally pulled away. It felt filthy and tender all at once and made Arthur want more.

Em trailed his hands down Arthur's arms, gently pulled Arthur's hands from his arse, and twined their fingers together. His breathing was heavy, but not erratic. In contrast, Arthur felt like he'd just run suicide sprints.

"Apologies," Em said softly. "Where are my manners?"

Arthur huffed out a laugh. "Not necessary. Really. I just—wow." He ran his thumbs over the bones in Em's wrists, trying to catch his breath and trying to coax some of the blood throbbing between his legs to return to his brain.

A sly look crept over Em's face. "So, gifts, yes? And then I believe there is supposed to be some sort of chicken-based meal?"

"What? Oh, yes." Arthur nodded. "Dinner. Definitely. Unless you'd like the tour first?"

Em tilted his head and regarded Arthur. He swept his eyes down and up, the same way he had in the dressing room at St. Jude's. "Hmm, I think that'll keep 'til later."

Arthur thought his brain might have to get used to getting by with less oxygen for the rest of the evening. "Right," he said shakily. "Dinner then. Just have to finish the salad. How are you at gutting peppers?"

Em squeezed Arthur's hands and stepped back, eyes merry. "Well, I'm not much of a cook, but I have had gross anatomy. How different can it be?"

"Ugh." Arthur wrinkled his nose and pushed off the door. "I don’t want to think about rotting dead people in my salad, you Burker."

Em shrugged. "That's part of why I'm so good at what I do though. Seen people from the inside out. Every nook and cranny." He leered up at Arthur as he retrieved his duffle. "And they're donated, not stolen, so they aren't rotting. They're preserved in—"

"Stop! Stop!" Arthur said, clapping his hands over his ears. "Not before we eat. Come on, kitchen's through here. And I'm dying to know what you've got in there, if it isn't explosives or posh chocolates."

Arthur had already selected a pepper for Em to slice when he realised that Em hadn't followed him into the kitchen. Puzzled, he looked back and saw that Em had paused at end of the entry hall, where the walls cut down to half-height, and was staring at him with an odd expression.

"Arthur," he said slowly, fingers gripped tight around the duffle strap, "why are you walking funny?"

Arthur blushed red as the pepper he was holding. He should have thought of that—should have remembered that his body held no secrets from Em, who had been trained to watch people move (who had had his hands _inside_ people, for fuck's sake).

"Ah, I just." Arthur squeezed his muscles around the plug he'd inserted earlier—the smaller, conical black one that just held him open without pressing against his prostate. His cock, still full and straining against its cotton confines, gave a sympathetic twitch.

Arthur turned on his brightest, falsest smile. He dropped the pepper and made a show of adjusting himself. "Things got a little tight, you know, and one of the boys ended up on the wrong side of the elastic. That was some hello."

Em had the decency to blush a bit himself. "Ah, sorry, I thought—I thought maybe you _had_ injured yourself today, and I hadn't caught it. And that you were being stupid and trying to hide it."

Arthur picked up a knife and held it against his heart. "You wound me, Emrys. When have I ever hidden anything from you?" _Well, except for things I intend you to find later._

"Are you serious, Arthur?"

"What?"

Em deposited the duffle bag on the breakfast island and unzipped it. "Well, there is the whole _closeted gay_ thing. And after you crashed onto the club scene, there were those several weeks where you were apparently harbouring illicit thoughts about me."

"Hey, they were perfectly… licit. At least I think they were. Buggery's no longer a crime, is it?"

Em shook his head. "Oh dear, you are behind. But then I’m guessing there was no LGBT Soc at the academy."

Arthur laughed. "Course not, mate. Who'd be in it?"

"Hmm. Maybe the type of lads who wander over to Avalon looking to get their cocks sucked? Never mind, you’ll learn. For starters, here, have a little pride." Em tossed two knobby, rainbow-striped pot holders onto the worktop. "Direct from Freya's clever fingers to your hetero-normative kitchen."

Arthur set the knife down and picked up one of the pads. Freya's threat came to mind, and he shifted uncomfortably, thinking of her furiously crocheting him a rainbow-striped body bag. "Uh, they're lovely."

"Tch. I shall tell her you teared up a little, declared her a genius at fibre arts, and hung them on your wall."

"Or that. What's in the bottle?"

"Metheglin. It's a spiced mead my mam makes. I was planning on bringing some sort of wine, but Freya and I know shit about wine other than how to uncork it." Em grinned. "So we asked Gwen, but she got off on a cake tangent and—well, if there ever was a match made in delicious boozy treats heaven, it would be her rum cakes and my mam's metheglin, so I raided my stash."

"Gwen made me a rum cake?" Arthur dropped the pot holder and approached the large tin.

Arthur adored rum cake—his old nanny had made rum cake—but rarely indulged anymore. The fixture list was always packed around the holidays, so he tried to avoid excess. When he did give in, it tended to be with crisps and alcohol, because store-bought cakes just weren't the same, and no one he spent time with actually baked anything themselves. Which was sad and, apparently, about to be rectified.

Arthur popped the lid off the tin.

"Well, she didn't technically make it _for you._ She's just been trying to get a jump on her holiday baking. She had several sitting around and said I should bring you one. I'm sure she didn't specifically—"

"Gwen made me a rum cake," Arthur said, awed. He bent down and inhaled the rich, boozy fragrance emanating from the tin. "Oh, I think I'm a little in love with Gwen."

One look at Em's face and Arthur hastily added, "And I'm sure the mead's ace as well. We'll crack it open after dinner, eh?"

"Hmpf."

Arthur risked brushing a thumb across the back of Em's hand. "Seriously though, thank you. Feels more like Christmas than a first date."

"First date, eh?"

"Dinner, whatever." Arthur pressed the lid back on the tin. "But just—thank you. And thank Gwen and Freya. They really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."

Em rolled his eyes, "Arthur, in case you hadn't noticed, you are a _bit_ famous round these parts. I don't know what came over Freya, but Gwen's apparently had a crush on you since you did that loan spell down at Docklands. So when she heard I was hanging out with you tonight? Ear-splitting, mate."

Arthur laughed as he retreated back behind the worktop. "Squealer, eh? I might have to revise my opinion."

"How do you know _I'm_ not a squealer?" Em said, running his finger up and down the neck of the mead bottle and glancing up from beneath his lashes.

Arthur swallowed. Then he picked up the pepper and threw it at a startled Em, who nevertheless managed to catch it one-handed. "Sliced thin, Emrys. In the green bowl when you're done."

* * *

It was a long dinner, possibly one of the longest of Arthur's life. Not that the food wasn't good (the herb-and-lemon roasted chicken _was_ an instant weekend classic, as promised) or the conversation uninteresting. Not that just sitting and talking with Em over a meal wasn't one of the highlights of Arthur's year. But for all his preparations, Arthur couldn't figure out exactly how he was supposed to act. Was it all right to just talk as mates, as they had at Em's flat? Should he be trying to chat Em up? Declaring his intentions? Hadn't he done that already?

For all his prior boldness, Arthur knew he wanted much more than sex from Em. But he did want the sex, very much so. For a moment there, in the entry hall, Arthur had thought the evening was going to go delightfully arse-backwards, with sex first and the dinner and conversation later—and why _wasn’t_ that the norm anyway, because it was a brilliant idea—but this was their first date, at least in Arthur’s mind, and he wanted to do it properly. If he could figure out what that was.

Em certainly wasn't helping. One minute he was talking about his physio training or the league tables, all earnest opinion or blokey enthusiasm; in the next, he would look at Arthur a certain way, brush his fingers against Arthur's as he passed the pepper mill, or say something that Arthur was sure had a double meaning. Then there was the fact that, like Arthur, he’d stuck to drinking mineral water, stating that he wanted to keep a clear head. Was he just being polite? Or did that signal something about Em’s intentions for later?

Maybe it was the plug in his arse, but the whole thing started to feel like one long, slow wank with his cock trussed tight and cruelly denied release. Arthur was so distracted he probably wouldn’t have noticed if he was eating his own bootlaces.

When the meal finally came to an end, Em professed interest in the promised tour. Arthur had initially envisioned this as an excuse to engage in obscene sex acts on a variety of surfaces, but Em, it seemed, was actually curious how Arthur's sort lived. The whole while, he carried on simultaneously being an utter lad (critically assessing Arthur’s gaming equipment) and a maddening flirt (brushing against him in doorways and always _always_ standing a little closer than a mate ever would). Arthur became so bewildered and painfully aroused that he began contemplating excusing himself to the bathroom for a wank.

They'd brought the metheglin and the rum cake into the living room by this point, Em having proposed finding something crap on telly to laugh at while they indulged. Arthur had eagerly agreed, as it was an excuse to get on the sofa with Em and do things that involved hands and mouths and rum cake, and that _had_ to lead somewhere good, right?

Arthur returned to the kitchen to fetch glasses for the mead, leaving Em with the remote. When he returned, he found Em standing in front of the sofa. The television was off, the remote placed snugly back in its dock.

"Em, what—"

"Arthur, come here," he said, holding out his arms.

Arthur set the glasses down on the nearest flat surface and went.

"What the fuck, Em?" he murmured into Em's neck once he finally, _finally_ had his hands on bare skin—shoved up underneath Em's jumper, stroking his back and then just holding him close. "I thought I was doing this wrong or something."

"No, no, no," Em said, sliding his hands down Arthur's back. His breath tickled Arthur’s ear. "You’ve been grand. And, for the record, you're dead sexy when you’re straining your jeans but too polite to do anything about it."

Arthur chuckled. "Bloody cocktease."

"Guilty as charged." Em's hands paused at the base of Arthur's spine. "Seriously though, Arthur? After what I pulled in Wessex, and tonight, in the hallway, I… sometimes I forget this is all new to you. Don’t want to rush you."

"Idiot," Arthur whispered, and nosed at the neckline of Em's jumper until he could get his face partway inside, mouthing at his collarbones and desperately hitching his hips forward, rubbing his erection against Em's thigh. "I told you Em—ah, fuck you smell incredible, you know that?"

Em exhaled shakily and slid his hands down lower, spreading his fingers wide over Arthur's arse cheeks. He didn't squeeze or pull, just pressed lightly with his fingertips, and Arthur found himself pushing back, wanting more pressure there even if it meant giving up the hard friction on his cock.

"Told me what?"

"What I want," Arthur said breathlessly, clutching Em's ribcage now, using him for balance as he arched his back, widened his stance and pressed his arse into Em's hands. "Wouldn't say it if I didn’t want it. I’m ready. More than ready, Em. Told you, been wanting you since I first saw you."

Arthur heard a small noise, almost like a whimper. Then his arse was pushing against empty space, Em's hands were clutching his head and he was being kissed—first closed-mouthed, then with tongue and teeth and hot breaths panted out against his cheeks. Arthur scrambled to keep up.

"You. Unreal. Gorgeous. Mad. Thing." Em said between kisses. With one last firm press of lips, Em released Arthur and stepped back. "Take off your jeans."

Ecstatic, thinking, _this is actually happening,_ Arthur thumbed open the button of his fly. He wanted to keep eye contact, to see Em’s reaction as he undressed, but unzipping jeans with an erection was not something done casually. With an apologetic smile, he ducked his head to negotiate the zip and stepped out of his jeans one leg at a time, balancing himself on the arm of the sofa.

When he looked up again, the rapt expression on Em’s face made Arthur’s breath hitch in his chest. He squeezed his arse cheeks together, feeling the place where they couldn't quite meet due to the flared base of the plug. He shifted, started to lift his shirt off over his head, then paused, watching Em.

Em nodded. "That too. And your socks. But leave your pants on."

When Arthur was standing proud in only his y-fronts, Em studied him. He shook his head slowly, then made a sort of strangled, exasperated noise and stepped forward. He enfolded Arthur in his arms, rubbing his face against whatever parts were nearest and stroking the rest with his hands, and Arthur felt like he'd just discovered what skin was made for.

"Oh, Arthur," Em murmured. "I'm gonna make you feel so good. So, so good."

"I know," Arthur said, rucking up Em's jumper and again pushing his hands underneath. "You always make me feel good. Magic fingers Merlin."

Em put his lips to Arthur's ear. "No shop talk. Unless you want me to call you Wart with my fingers up your arse."

Arthur squirmed. "Fair enough." He tugged up on the hem of Em’s jumper. "Can I? Please? Want to feel you against me, your skin."

"Since you asked nicely," Em whispered, his tone warm and teasing. He lifted his arms. Arthur worked the jumper up carefully, touching the exposed flesh as he went along, not quite trusting his own hands.

Em's skin was fairly smooth, pale and sweat-damp and infused with heat. His nipples were pink and flat, stretched wide and lazy until the cooler air made them contract. Arthur traced the resulting nubs with his fingers. While Em’s arms were still raised, tangled in the jumper, Arthur pressed his face into each shadowed armpit. The black hair there looked coarse but felt silky, and Arthur wondered if it would be the same down below, where a dark trail disappeared into the waistband of Em's trousers. Arthur inhaled and the scent went straight to his cock, already impossibly hard and now making a damp spot on his y-fronts.

He tugged the jumper free and draped it over the end of the sofa. He pulled Em close, chest to chest, nuzzling sloppily at the side of his face because he was too overwhelmed by the sensation of _finally_ being skin to skin to even kiss properly. 

Then he realised, with a surge of added joy, that there was _more._ Em was only half-uncovered. Arthur slid his hands between them and managed to get Em's belt buckle undone before Em stopped him.

"Arthur, wait."

"Hmm?" Arthur withdrew his hands and pulled away slightly. Em's cheeks were flushed and splotchy. His lips looked swollen, and Arthur could no longer see the gloss.

_Because we kissed it off. It's on me, rubbed into my skin. Ohsweetfuck how am I ever going to last?_

"Er, should I go get the condoms and stuff now?" When Em didn’t respond Arthur added, "Or we could move this into the bedroom. Probably more comfortable, and I have… things. Toys. Supplies. I haven't figured it all out yet, but we can try, if you like?"

For the first time all evening, Em's eyes slid away. He looked uncertain. He took a step back and Arthur, who’d got used to basking in Em’s undivided attention over the past few hours, felt horribly bereft.

"What?" he said.

"Oh, Arthur." Em placed a hand on Arthur's chest. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is your first time, yes?"

Arthur nodded impatiently.

"Well, then I—I mean, no need to do everything, alright? No need to get fancy. Plenty of time for that later."

Arthur felt a lick of anger flare in his chest. He appreciated that Em had scruples, but at the moment he didn't want them interfering with what he'd come to think of as his _real_ first time: Sex with full knowledge of who he was and full ownership of his desires. Arthur craved intimacy with men, with _this_ man, as a matter of fact, and didn’t want to be treated like a dizzy schoolboy.

"Don't fucking patronise me, Emrys," Arthur said, crowding close. He grasped Em's hands and placed them back on his arse. "I've waited long enough, wouldn’t you say?" He slid Em's left hand down between his legs, guiding his fingers towards the place where the base of the plug could be felt through the thin cotton of his pants. "And, as you can feel, I've been practising."

Em's reaction was instantaneous and almost frightening in its intensity. He pulled his hands away as if they'd been burned. He gawped at Arthur for a split second, his plump lips parted, his eyes wide.

"Ohmyjaysusfuck," he said, then Arthur found himself spun around and shoved unceremoniously onto the sofa. He landed with his knees on the seat and braced his upper body against the back, thinking, _Fucking finally._

He felt fingernails digging into his hips, then cool air on his arse and balls as Em yanked his pants down. Arthur lifted each knee in turn when Em tapped the backs of his thighs, so he could work the pants off Arthur’s legs. His cock, freed from its confines, jutted heavily, smearing precum on the leather.

"Oh," Em breathed. He said other things as well, but they weren't actual words, as far as Arthur could tell. He smiled and dropped his head onto his forearms, thrusting his arse up and back. 

Arthur felt a jolt, and realised that Em was pressing on the base of the plug. He wriggled a little, a grunt escaping his lips, and the pressure went away. He bit his lips and held absolutely still. Soon he was rewarded with another prod, followed by warm fingers trailing over his arse cheeks and down his thighs. "Oh, that's just—Arthur, when did you put that in?"

Arthur looked back over his shoulder. "Before you came over. I wanted—I wanted to be prepared."

A pained expression crossed Em's face, and Arthur felt a chill trickle down his spine. "What?" he said tightly. "Still too vanilla for you?"

Em's mouth fell open, his eyebrows lifting comically high. "What? Arthur, what do you— _where_ did you get the idea that I expected this?" He gestured at Arthur's arse. "Not that I'm complaining, mind, but for your first time? I heard what you said in my treatment room, and believe me, I would love… I mean, someday. But you're new to this and this is, as you said, our first date. Why would you assume…?" Em waved his hands helplessly, then buried them in his hair and groaned.

Arthur sank back onto his heels, suddenly cold. He turned and retreated to one corner of the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest. Through the haze of embarrassment, he became aware that Em had settled beside him.

"Freya," he muttered. "At the club. She said you were—"

Em smacked his forehead. "Oh my god. That I was a brutal kinky top? So all this time you thought… and you've been. Ungh. _Fuck."_

Arthur saw Em tug at the crotch of his trousers, his face a picture of agony.

"You're not?" Arthur said, his voice wooden. "Oh my god, you're not. That was a joke, wasn't it? I'm such a—"

"Oh, hey, wait." Em scooted towards Arthur and tugged his legs until they were resting on Em's lap, his arse snug up against Em's thigh. "No, it wasn’t entirely a joke." He stroked Arthur's thigh with the flat of his palm, then gave it a little squeeze. "But I’m not exclusively like that. Not with everyone, and certainly not on first dates. It requires a great deal of trust and… well, emotional investment. It's intense. Not that I don’t trust you, but I think we've enough to be going on with in the intensity department, yes?"

Arthur could feel Em's body heat through the rough canvas of his trousers. He curled his hands over his cock and turned his face into the back of the sofa, but even in his mortification he couldn’t help but press his arse into that warmth.

Em reached out and placed a finger under Arthur's chin, gently coaxing him to turn his head. "Arthur?"

Arthur couldn't meet Em's eyes, but he nodded. "I'm sorry, I only wanted –"

"Do not fucking apologise," Em whispered vehemently, leaning over for a kiss. "Not to me. Not for this. Neverever."

"But—"

"But nothing, you brave thing. Let me take care of you tonight, and we can talk more about this some other time, if you like. Okay?"

Arthur wiggled his bottom against Em's thigh hopefully. "So you will? At least fuck me, I mean?"

"Not with my cock, Arthur. I'm too—well, I couldn’t do it justice tonight. But I won’t let your good plug work go to waste."

Arthur frowned. "But I'm ready, Em. I stretched and everything."

"Ssh," Em said, placing a finger against Arthur's lips. "You started with it, so let me finish you off with it. That and my fingers. How big is it? Come on, spread your legs and let me see."

Arthur scooted down. He wedged one knee against the back of the sofa and draped his other leg over the edge of the seat. Em sat back and tugged off his boots, then he was kneeling between Arthur's thighs, nosing at his balls and laving the base of his cock. He gripped his cock in one hand and the base of the plug in the other.

"Feel like you still have enough lube in there?"

Arthur nodded. "Think so."

Em smiled saucily. "Well, let's find out." He began rotating the plug, pulling it a little way out until Arthur's body was clutching for it, then pressing back in. He watched Arthur carefully, and Arthur watched back, but as with the blowjob in the wetroom, the sight of Em crouched between his legs was too much on top of all the other stimuli. Arthur closed his eyes.

"Feels fine," he whispered. "Feels good. You can go harder."

Em began fucking into him with the plug in earnest, thankfully holding the base of Arthur's cock clamped tight in one hand. When Arthur keened for more, Em stopped.

Arthur looked up, about to protest, but Em said, "Here, hold yourself here. Tight. And don’t you dare come yet." He positioned Arthur's hands on his cock, then turned his attentions back to the plug.

Em placed a thumb and forefinger firmly against the stretched skin and began to pull the plug out. Arthur clenched helplessly. He'd had the thing in for hours now and his body didn't want to let it go, but Em whispered encouragements into Arthur's thighs.

"That's it. Give over, Arthur. Relax. I want to get my fingers in there."

And he did—one, two, then even three of them. They were slimmer and rougher and longer than the plug. They didn’t give the same sensation of fullness, but they were sentient and warm, curling right up against Arthur's prostate.

When Em said, "Okay, let go," then covered Arthur's hand with his own, it only took a couple of strokes before he came—hard and swearing and kicking out against the sofa cushions. He might have blacked out for a moment.

Em kissed him after. He remembered that much.

He also remembered Em clambering on top of him, pressing him into the sofa cushions, and whispering endearments as he ground his still fully-clothed erection against Arthur's thigh until he shuddered and went still. Arthur regretted that bit—that he'd been too sponge-brained to insist on Em getting his cock out and letting Arthur have a proper go at it in some fashion. At least now he knew the approximate size of it (long), and what Em's face looked like when he came (tense, but lovely).

Em covered the both of them with an afghan after, and Arthur remembered not-watching something inane on television while Em fed him sticky-sweet chunks of rum cake directly from the tin. They each had a couple of swigs of the mead. There was kissing and the licking of crumbs off sweaty skin and complaints about whose limbs were cutting off the circulation in whose.

They dozed for a bit. When they woke, Arthur suggested drowsily that Em stay, but Em quite sensibly reminded him how suspicious that would look, both to his own friends who (save Freya) thought Arthur was just a mate, and to anyone who had access to the building's security logs.

"Say you got pissed."

Em shook his head. "Gwen knows I wouldn't. And Freya needs Will's car early tomorrow."

Arthur mournfully watched Em dress. Wrapped in the afghan, he saw Em to the door. He snogged him before he let him leave, whispering, "Next time I want to suck your cock, Em. I want you to show me how. I'll let you do whatever you want, you know. I’m going to be so good that soon you’ll be begging to fuck me."

Em groaned and butted his head against Arthur's. "You’re something else, Pendragon," he whispered. Then, putting on a terrible American accent, "Of all the gay clubs in all the nations in the United Kingdom, I'm glad you slunk into mine."

They parted laughing.

The text came in just after Arthur had finally clambered into bed.

_Sleep well arthur_

_You too_ Arthur replied. Then, with a sleepy grin he added, _Some rum cake. Packed quite a punch. Must thank Gwen_

Em sent a very rude smiley back. Followed by, _See u monday_

And Monday, Arthur thought as he turned out the lights, was going to be something of a milestone, because if he wasn't mistaken, it was the first time he was going to don Camelot colours while having an actual boyfriend. A secret boyfriend, granted, but a real one. Undeniably, gloriously real.


	15. Dummy

For Arthur, November was a month of lies. While everyone else was busy lighting bonfires, remembering the dead, or simply revelling in the last of the fine football weather, Arthur became a slave to the increasingly elaborate fictions that allowed him to carve out time alone with Em.

The Monday after their first date, Arthur entered the training complex only to be blindsided by Gwaine and dragged off down a corridor.

"What the fu– "

"Need a quick word, Princess," Gwaine said. "Promise it's for your own good. Here we are."

Gwaine yanked a door open and shoved Arthur inside what turned out to be a supply closet. Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but then he saw Em. He was leaning against a metal shelving unit, blinking sleepily and inhaling the steam rising from a Camelot FC thermal mug. 

Em's face melted into an easy smile. "Oh, hello."

Arthur shook Gwaine's hand off the back of his neck. "Morning, you." 

Arthur noticed that Em had nicked himself shaving, and that there was a chapped spot on his lower lip. Em straightened and took a sip of his drink. Arthur watched his long fingers curling round the bright red stainless steel and thought, _He's fucked me with those fingers; they've been inside me._

"Oh my bleeding stars," Gwaine said, and Arthur tore his gaze from Em. "Fellas, if that's how you're going to play it, you might as well ink one another's names on your foreheads. You'll fool no one."

"What the fuck, Orkney?" Arthur muttered, just as Em said, "Oh, I think you'd be surprised, Gwaine. People generally see what they want to see. Now would you care to explain what we're all doing in a closet at arse o'clock on Monday morning? Please tell me it isn't meant to be symbolic?"

"Symbolic?" Gwaine frowned.

Em shook his head and set his mug down on a shelf. "We're in a closet, Gwaine," he said, gesturing at the shelves stacked high with cardboard cartons and shrink-wrapped towels. "Gays—at least two, by my count—press ganged into an actual factual _closet._ Should I not be worried about the symbolism?"

Gwaine turned to Arthur, face screwed up in one of the finest "what the fuck" expressions Arthur had seen since Kay had explained teabagging to Percy. Arthur shrugged.

"Look, lads. I only want to help," Gwaine said, looking nervously between the two of them. "I ran into Elyan in the car park. He'd spoken to his sister yesterday and asked me what I thought of her rum cake. All riled, actually, as apparently she won’t give him any 'til Christmas. Said she must really like you, Arthur, and wasn't that a waste of cake."

Arthur swore. Em exhaled heavily, lips parted and forehead creased with worry. Then there was a moment when they looked at one another, and even though Em's expression was nowhere near reassuring, Arthur's panic subsided.

"So what did you say?" Arthur said, eyes still locked on Em's.

Gwaine grinned. "What do you think? Waxed poetic, didn’t I? Said it was better than licking Bacardi off virgin cunt."

Em blinked. "Ugh, Gwaine, that's just—" 

"Said we'd devoured the whole thing between the three of us before supper even," Gwaine went on merrily, "and then I'd whipped both your sorry arses at _Pro Evo._ In fact, story is you both owe me nicker—twenty from you, Em, and fifty from you."

Arthur glared at Gwaine. "Not bloody likely." 

Gwaine held up his hands. _"Story is,_ I said, so just relax, Princess. Your wallet is safe. Your gaming rep may be trashed, but I passed up a night at The Mill after a victory to cover for you lot. So I figure I get to set the story. Plus now I'm giving you the heads up about Elyan."

"You're a rare mate Gwaine," Em said archly. "Truly stunning and selfless in every way."

Gwaine placed one hand over his heart and bobbed his head. "Least I could do for two of my favourite fellas. Well, _one_ of my favourite fellas, plus the man who's going to lead us to Europe if he can stop eye-fucking his physio long enough to work on his volley."

Anyone passing down the corridor just then would have heard mysterious thumps, grunts and laughter emanating from the supply closet. 

In the canteen, Catrina commented that Gwaine seemed especially bright-eyed and Arthur a tad feverish; thankfully she did not comment on the dusting of washing powder that clung to both their hair. Word went round that Arthur was a bit of a sore loser when it came to console gaming, but as anyone who'd ever played him knew that already, it was hardly news.

Arthur and Em had learned their lesson though. Gwaine could be counted on in a pinch, but it was better to coordinate stories beforehand. And spread the cover around—which meant, paradoxically, that November was also a month of truths.

* * *

Elena was brought into the fold later that week, at Em's insistence. On paper, she was now in charge of Arthur's treatment, though in practice he mainly saw Em. This was hardly unusual—cases got apportioned equally and the physio team negotiated the actual workload amongst themselves—but Em was adamant that she oversee all of his work with Arthur in full knowledge of the exact nature of their relationship.

"Why?" Arthur said when Em pressed him on Thursday after training. "I thought it was sorted. She sees all the records as is. I'm sure she'll notice if you're telling me to strip off and steam when I should be icing. Why does she have to know it's because you're blinded by lust, rather than having a crap day at the office? What's changed?"

Em rolled his eyes. In Coach's voice, he said, "What's changed is that I've decided to give you a proper chance, young Pendragon. Mad as it may be." 

"Don't do that, Em. It's creepy. Seriously."

"That's just it. I am _trying_ to be serious, Arthur," Em said in his normal voice. "About my job and… _well."_ Em gave Arthur one of those sweeping, lash-heavy, bottoms-up looks that, if they'd been anywhere other than the Knightswood car park, would have prompted him to start removing clothing.

Arthur glanced round and took a step closer. "Em," he said warningly, then belied his own caution by wedging the toe of his trainer between Em's feet. They were between two cars, and no one was likely to see their feet, but Arthur knew he was probably standing too close.

Em didn't move away.

"Arthur, if I'm going to be involved with you, then I want it to be as legit as possible. Under the circumstances. Meaning I won’t use my colleagues without their say-so, alright? Plus I really like Ellie, and I'd prefer it if she didn’t keep giving you the evil eye."

And so that was that. Arthur relented, and Em rubbed his instep against Arthur's ankle in lieu of a goodbye snog. 

The next day high-pitched, joyful sounds could be heard coming from behind the closed door of the treatment room, and Arthur was forcefully reminded that Elena, whom he'd always been secretly fond of in a "why couldn’t you have been my sister, because you’re more like a lad, really" kind of way, could be an utter girl when provoked. 

However, he also realised that he would do well to revise his opinions about what being an "utter girl" meant, because although Elena went awfully pink and dewy-eyed, she also immediately grasped the situation (and its full implications) without it being spelt out. 

She told Em he was a nitwit for even worrying, because of _course_ she'd be happy to ensure that his personal feelings about Arthur's groin didn't interfere with his professional treatment of it. She told Arthur that she took back every nasty thought she'd ever had of him, then mumbled something into his chest about rekindled hopes that _someday_ certain tomcatting Fabios might notice the people attached to the hands massaging their ruddy glutes. 

So apparently, amidst all the squealing and hugging, utter girls were rather savvy, tactful and kind.

* * *

Morgana was the next to hear the news. The third week in November, after a hard-fought 3-2 win over the Ridings, Arthur found himself facing yet another of Leon and Myror's invites to a couples' night out on the town. He agreed, but as soon as he was alone he rang his half-sister and made her promise not to bring Viv along, at least not for his sake, because he was gay. And seeing someone.

"Bravo," she said, and Arthur swore he could hear her smirk through the phone. 

Of course, as she told him, she and Viv had suspected the gay for ages, so it wasn't really news, but she was stunned to hear that Arthur had a living, breathing boyfriend. When she heard who it was, there was a long silence.

At last she sighed, said, "Oh, Arthur. A physio— _your_ physio—from the club? Really? You don’t like to make things easy on yourself. I suppose having him join us is right out then."

"At The Kitchens, with Leon and Myror? Er, no. But it wouldn’t matter who he was, Morgana. You know how many eyes are on that place. Maybe I could get away with it in a whole crowd, but I can’t very well start turning up for date night with a bloke on my arm. People would be posting photos online before the entrees arrived, and the lads would be suspicious."

Morgana sighed again. "But if you'd just—oh, never mind. Of course, I understand; it's a delicate situation. But I want to meet this Emrys properly. Bring him round for drinks after work next week."

The food at The Kitchens was excellent, as usual. No one commented on the fact that they were five, rather than six, and though Arthur would have dearly loved for Em to be sitting beside him, Morgana was at her hostess best. She told wickedly funny stories about her clients, enticed Constance to do the same, and had them all laughing so much Arthur hardly had time to feel lonely. But Arthur caught her, more than once, watching him with that same strange, soft expression.

On the way out, as everyone was donning coats and scarves, Morgana leaned in and pressed a kiss to Arthur's cheek. "One day," she whispered. 

The words were a statement of hope, but to Arthur they also felt like an accusation. He declined going on to The Mill to meet up with some of the other lads, said his goodbyes, and spent the taxi ride home thinking about the athletes who'd "one day" come out, usually well _after_ their pro careers were over. And even then, how many of them cruised openly or brought their partners along to public events? Acknowledged them casually on radio and television without a thought, the way straight pundits did every single goddamn day? 

Arthur had been talking to Em about these things, looking into it a bit more online. It was frightening though, the bitterness and anger he felt if he let himself think about it too much. When he'd admitted this to Em, Em had stroked his arm fondly and said, "Your consciousness is coming along nicely. Freya will be so proud."

* * *

When Arthur conveyed Morgana's invitation, it was Em's turn to be difficult. 

He was vague over the phone at the weekend. When Arthur brought it up again on Monday, he cited awkward train schedules and not usually drinking on weeknights, plus the fact that even Arthur was intimidated by his half-sister. 

Arthur countered by reminding him that Leon, who was no fool, obviously thought the world of her. And that she could be very nice. In fact, she'd given Arthur sex toys, specifically the very butt plugs that—

Em cut him off with a pointed glare at the open treatment room door and told him he should have stuck to the Leon argument.

"Not that I don’t appreciate her gifts," he murmured as he worked liniment into Arthur's lower back. "But I do _not_ need to be thinking about how your arse looked all spread out for me on your sofa when I'm shaking hands with your forbidding goddess of a sister."

However, as Arthur later complained, Em had been an utter doddle. It had taken precisely one expertly blended dirty martini out on Morgana's balcony overlooking the river to win him over to her side. 

Em protested that it had had far more to do with her life-sized framed reproduction of Vesalius' flayed man hanging in the toilet, their shared talent for murdering pot plants, and the fact that she'd twice referred to Arthur as "Grompet."

"Why is that so endearing?" Arthur asked. "It's not even a real word. Just something daft from when we were little."

"Is so a real word."

They were sprawled on one of the golf carts staff used to navigate the acres of practice pitches that stretched between Knightswood and the CFC Academy. Arthur had one foot propped up on the dash, his ankle swathed in an ice compression wrap. Some of the first team had been scrimmaging with the academy youths after they finished their morning session, and one of the little shits had fallen on Arthur's ankle. Not on purpose, of course, but it was a reminder of why Coach didn't like them scrimmaging with the youths before big matches.

"Meaning?" Arthur said, tearing his eyes away from the amusing sight of three lads, all around four feet high, trying to find a way through Percy. 

Em had a secretive smile on his face. "Meaning what?" Arthur repeated, elbowing Em sharply in the side.

"Ow. It's from a kiddie book, you big bully. My cousin Nimmy's old favourite naptime tale. I assume Morgana was also a fan." Em looked over at Arthur, eyes sparkling. 

Arthur shrugged. "So?"

"There's this girl who's fed up with her parents bossing her about every least thing, right? She runs away and finds this wee furry creature in the forest—that's the grompet—who's ever-so-sad and wants nothing better than for someone to love him enough to tell him what to do. So she takes him home and bosses him, and he helps her understand how lucky she is to have parents who care enough to lay down the law, pick the nits and whathaveyou."

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"Isn’t that kind of a twisted?"

Em laughed softly. He leaned over and, under the guise of checking Arthur's ankle, said, "Oh, you think so, do you? Says the man who begged me to tell him how to suck my cock." 

Em silently mouthed the last three words, and Arthur felt himself flush bright red. He grabbed a water bottle from the caddy behind the seat, flipped it open and squirted a stream of cool liquid into his mouth. On second thought, he tore off the lid and poured the contents over his head.

"I'm hot," he said at Em's incredulous look. Em only chuckled, mercifully not pointing out that most of the squad were kitted out in long sleeves and warm-up pants.

* * *

That night, at his flat, Arthur found himself privately admitting that maybe he was a bit of a grompet after all, because kneeling on the floor in front of Em, warm, musky cockflesh pressed against his cheek and two fingers slowly sliding in and out of his mouth, Arthur was only too happy to be bossed.

They were in complimentary states of nakedness, Arthur bare-chested but still in his jeans, Em still wearing his club polo and warm-up jacket but naked from the waist down. He knelt spread-legged on the sofa above Arthur, fingers roving over Arthur's hair and face, quietly telling him what he wanted him to do.

At Em's bidding, Arthur rubbed his nose against his balls and fingered the soft skin just behind them. He opened his jaw wide, pressed the flat of his tongue firmly to the base of Em's cock, and held it there until Em told him he could move it. Em had him vibrate his tongue, then trace each thick vein up the shaft. When he got to the tip, just starting to bulge out from the foreskin, Em told Arthur to spit and use his tongue to work the moisture down between the foreskin and glans. As he did so, Em grew fully erect, dusky foreskin retracting to reveal the shiny purple flesh of his cockhead.

When Arthur, longing to feel the warm friendly weight, not just in his hands or against his cheek, but in his throat, tried to swallow him down, Em hooked a thumb in the corner of his mouth and tugged him off. 

"Not yet," he whispered.

Arthur, mouth watering, sucked shamelessly on Em's thumb instead. He let go of Em's thigh and cock and grabbed his wrist, pressing his thumbs into the fleshy parts of Em's palm and scraping his teeth lightly over the nail. Arthur thought he might actually be able to come from this—trying to suck hard enough so that his throat felt full, rutting against the unforgiving constraints of thick denim, and listening to Em's wrecked breathing above him.

Of course the minute Arthur had the thought, Em tugged sharply on Arthur's hair with his other hand and pulled his thumb away. He tilted Arthur's head back and held him like that as he regained control of his breathing. Arthur wanted to say something obnoxious or clever, wanted to tease about his amazing beginner's prowess, but Em's expression was so intense, almost _frightened,_ as he looked down at Arthur, that the words died in his throat.

Instead, the moment Em relaxed his grip, Arthur shuffled forward on his knees, wrapped his arms around the backs of Em's thighs and pressed his face into the crease where leg met hip. 

"Please," he murmured. "Please, Em. I'll do whatever you say. Only let me put it in my mouth. Soon, yeah? I need to suck you."

"Oh, _Arthur,"_ Em said. 

Arthur felt fingers carding through his hair, then a tension in Em's muscles as he curled forward to kiss the top of Arthur's head. He gently guided Arthur's hands and mouth back to his cock, telling him where to grip, where to stroke and where to use his tongue.

By the time Em let him take the head in his mouth, Arthur's throat was aching with want. His chin was sloppy with a mixture of saliva and precum, as was Em's cock, and Arthur sank onto it with a kind of manic relief. He hummed happily and choked himself in his eagerness until Em backed him off and shakily reminded him to use his hands if he couldn’t take the whole length in his mouth.

Em continued to whisper instructions, touching the pads of his fingers to Arthur's cheeks and jaw. But when Arthur reached up, captured one of Em's hands and planted it in his hair, encouraging him to grab on, Em's speech was interrupted by a sort of awed moan. And when Arthur finally found a sustainable rhythm, it became less of a formal lesson in cocksucking and more a jumbled litany of praise and confession, from which Arthur learned that Em had deep-seated _feelings_ about Arthur's hair and Arthur's mouth and coming all over Arthur's face. 

In fact, Arthur learned that the night after his red card, the night after he'd drunkenly told Em about the blue plug, Em had searched out one of the tabloids that featured a close-up of Arthur's flushed, angry face as he walked off the pitch. He'd spread it out on the hotel bed, knelt over it and wanked. He'd felt dirty but he hadn’t been able to help himself, and the sight of his cum dripping down Arthur's cheek and caught in the trough between his nose and upper lip—even in 2D—had been so fucking hot and exquisite he had almost got hard again, and if he even _knew_ what Arthur was doing to him now, with his wet pushy mouth and his stupid perfect face and his fucking overachieving first team eagerness.

And though Arthur, reeling from the scent and the taste and the visceral thrill of _giving head,_ had initially thought he'd like to try swallowing Em's cum down, milking it from his cock with the muscles in his throat like they moaned about in pornos, the thought of giving Em something he craved, something only Arthur could give him, felt so utterly right. 

So when Em's balls drew up tight and his hips stopped hitching forward, when his words trailed off into a breathy whine, Arthur quickly pulled off. He closed his eyes and tipped his face up and just pumped Em's shaft with one hand. The first spurt of warm fluid hit him along one side of his nose and mouth. He turned his head, catching the rest of it on his cheek and chin; he suspected some landed in his hair as well. 

"Unghfuck! You… oh my fucking jaysus hell and _Arthur,_ you," Em said brokenly. "Fuck."

Arthur opened his eyes, flicked out his tongue to taste, and suddenly found himself being bowled over by a lapful of Em, licking into his mouth, smearing cum across Arthur's skin and saying, "I can’t believe you just—" and "Where on earth?" and "Oh, Arthur, what do you?"

"Touch me," Arthur whispered hoarsely against Em's temple. "So close. Nearly came sucking on your thumb. And your cock. Em, that felt amazing. That I could… oh, just get your hands on me. _Now._ Please."

Em kissed Arthur fiercely, then pushed him back onto the floor and deftly set about undoing his jeans. He plunged one hand into Arthur's pants and pulled his cock out. He didn’t bother to slide the pants down, just yanked the elastic clear, wrapped his fingers round Arthur's shaft and began to stroke firmly from root to tip. 

The sudden rush of sensation, of finally having intense skin-on-skin friction after an evening of being trapped and straining in his jeans, was as heady as ripping off the cock and ball harness. Arthur bucked and thrashed, thighs trembling. Em pinned Arthur's hips to the floor with his upper body and began to twist his hand on the upstroke. Arthur only knew he was still breathing because he heard his own harsh, guttural pants. He came before Em's tenth stroke.

* * *

After they recovered, Arthur insisted that Em call Freya and tell her he was staying the night, security logs be damned. He had a washer and tumble dryer in the flat and could have Em's work clothes ready to wear by morning; they could tell anyone who asked that he'd picked Em up at the station and given him a lift to Knightswood.

It was another first. They'd fallen asleep together before, but only for post-coital naps on one another's sofas. Em had never spent the night in Arthur's flat. Arthur could tell that Em wasn't entirely certain that he should be doing so now, but he could also tell that there had never been a better time to press his advantage. 

Cautious about making assumptions or seeming too clingy, he stayed on his side of the bed, merely brushing his fingers against Em's arm as he whispered, "Goodnight, Emmett. Sleep well."

But either Em read something into the tone of Arthur's voice or he was what Kay called, "a bit squiddy," because as soon as Arthur pulled his hand away, there was a rustle and an, "Oh, come here, you great lump," and Em was insinuating his appendages into Arthur's personal space in all sorts of wonderful ways.

That night Arthur finally learned that Em was not a snorer—well, not much of one—but that he mumbled in his sleep. He also learned that Em's feet grew terribly cold, he drooled the tiniest bit, he smelled like sex heaven (even when he was a tad manky), and that his dick was an early riser, even if the rest of him wasn't. 

And while learning all of these things about Em, having them all to himself, fulfilled a need in Arthur he hadn't fully acknowledged that he'd had, the dread he felt as they approached the media barrier the next morning eclipsed the night's pleasure. All the lies settled on his shoulders, a horrible grey, grim weight, and Arthur began to understand Em's initial reticence. 

It could be incredible between them; that wasn't the issue. But giving in to that, _knowing_ how good it could be if it was every night and full on and out in the open, but then having to settle for sometimes and half-arsed and hidden? That felt horrid.

After he parked the car, Arthur quickly reached over and grabbed Em's hand before he could unbuckle his seatbelt.

"I think you should tell Gwen," he said. "And anyone else who is important to you—Will, your mother, your Uncle John."

"Arthur, what—"

"I'm going to tell my father," Arthur plunged on, not trusting himself to say the words otherwise. "At Christmas. And my agent, soon. And Coach and Leon. I'll take their advice about when to tell the rest of the squad."

Arthur dared a look at Em then, and he couldn’t help but smile at the gobsmacked expression on his face.

"Surprised you, didn't I?" he said, letting go of Em's hand and brushing a thumb across his thigh. "You said it yourself once; apparently I don’t do things by halves." 

"For which," Em said, once he'd wrangled his face back into some semblance of a normal human expression, "I may well start re-believing in some sort of higher power, just so I can bow down and thank it. Arthur, are you sure?"

"Sure? No. But last night and this morning, compared to just now? Listening to your batshit night mumbling, waking up to you humping my thigh, and getting to make you your morning tea compared to telling Sophia of the fucking _Echo_ that you were just some mate on staff who needed a lift? That felt like shite, Em. Rotten shite. Anything's better than that."

"Anything?" Em said gently. "Really? Even if you couldn't—"

"Don’t say it," Arthur said, gripping Em's knee. "I thought I could keep it all separate. I'm beginning to see that I can't, but I refuse to sacrifice one for the other. I want football _and_ I want you, Em. And I don’t want to hide that."

"Having your cake and eating it too," Em murmured. "My, my. Greedy boy."

"Yes," Arthur said, nodding. "And if I'm that good at the one then maybe everyone can just go fuck themselves if they have a problem with the other. Cake for all."

"Fucking cake for all," Em said, grinning. He patted Arthur's thigh. "So help me, Pendragon, I may actually start liking you for your brain, daft though it may be."

They stared at one another, smiling, until Gwaine came roaring into the car park on his motorbike and broke the spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book referenced in this chapter is Patricia Coombs' 1980 _Lisa and the Grompet_


	16. Big Man up Top

Gwen had taken the news rather well, all things considered. Initially she'd gone very quiet, bolted herself in her room and refused to come out. Em was vague about the next part, which had apparently involved a lot of shouting and the brandishing of pointy objects, but he assured Arthur that all of his posters, plus the club calendar, had survived more or less intact.

_"She's mainly narked at me and Freya for keeping secrets,"_ Em said. _"And at the universe."_

"The universe?" Arthur said, peering cautiously into his overnight bag. Kay was in the bath with his earbuds in, and Arthur was taking advantage of the privacy to ring Em, who had the weekend off and hadn't travelled down with the squad. "Why the universe?"

_"Because, and I quote, 'All the perky bums, shiny eyes and broad-hearted noble chests are either tay or gayken.' This was after Freya had fed her a few shots."_

"You don’t say." Arthur removed his sleep shorts from the bag with one hand and shook them vigorously to make sure Kay hadn’t put anything inside. "Wait, Gwen thinks I have a perky bum?"

Em chuckled. _"Honestly, Arthur. If it were any perkier it would have its own morning chat show."_

"Em! How many shots have _you_ had?"

_"None, actually. I don’t need to be on the sauce to wax enthusiastic about your arse."_

Arthur heard laughter and shouting in the background, followed by a muffled crash.

_"Oh, shite, that's—ah, well, so she goes,"_ Em said, sighing.

"Everything okay?" Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, sleep shorts dangling from one hand. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure the bathroom door was still shut tight.

_"More or less. We've moved on to pints and takeaway. Freya's beer-ears thought I said something about waxing your arse; Gwen snorted Thai basil noodle up her nose and knocked over a lamp with her gladius. She has an impressive array of replica weapons, did I mention that? On top of all the knitting needles."_

"Uh, I think maybe it's best I don’t know any more," Arthur said, leaning back and struggling one-handed into his shorts. "But don't let Gwen get too pissed on my account. Or poke holes in anyone. And tell her I'm sorry."

There was a moment of silence. Arthur heard a forcible exhale. _"Tell her you're sorry?"_ Em's voice had lost its lilt. _"For what? Being gay? Fancying me? Arthur, I—"_

"No, no!" Arthur interjected. "Nothing like that. I'm sorry for her best mates having to lie to her. With anyone else, you would've told her, right? So that is my fault, and she has every right to be angry, but with _me._ Not you and Freya." 

Arthur realised he'd abandoned his efforts with his shorts around his knees and was clutching the phone with both hands.

_"Oh,"_ Em whispered. 

Arthur could barely hear him over the hotel heating, which had started chugging to life. In the bathroom, Kay began to warble tunelessly along with whatever he was listening to on his iPod.

"Em?"

_"Oh, Arthur, that is…"_ Em's voice was gentle once more. 

Arthur relaxed and finished pulling on his shorts. They were one of the gag gifts Morgana had given him last Christmas, lurid red with rampant gold lions capering about in Santa hats. A thought occurred to him.

"Just tell her I'm sorry, okay? And that anytime she wants to come watch Elyan play at the Citadel, she can use the family box. She can bring friends, whatever, and watch in style. Morgana won't mind. She hardly uses it."

_"Have I told you you're far too decent for someone so gorgeous?"_

Blushing, Arthur stood and whipped back the duvet. Nothing. But there were tell-tale lumps in the pillowcase, most likely Kay's dirty socks. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm just trying to make sure I get more of that rum cake in future."

Em laughed softly. _"And another proud man succumbs. I tell you, it's a good thing Gwen is only interested in mouldy-oldy warfare and politics. The Home Office probably ought to be concerned; she could infiltrate MI5 with that rum cake if she'd a mind to."_

Arthur imagined a female version of Elyan sneaking round Thames House with a whisk and a Roman short sword. He grinned. "Double-O-Gwen, Licensed to Bake?"

Em laughed in earnest then, an explosion of sound that devolved into uncontrollable near-silent chortling. Arthur wished he could be there to see. Em's pale skin went pink when he laughed too hard; his eyes crinkled up at the edges and sometimes watered, making it look a bit like he'd been crying. It made him look years younger, daft and gawky, and Arthur loved it because it allowed him to imagine what it would have been like to have known Em all his life—to have seen him grow from a big-eyed, snotty boy to a gangly, spotty teen to the man he was today.

_"Speaking of bad jokes,"_ Em said, his voice bright and mischievous. _"Sorry about this, but it is too good to pass up. Hang on."_

There was a rustle. Em must have taken the phone away from his mouth, because Arthur heard his faraway-sounding shout of, _"Hey, Gwen! Arthur says he wants you to use his box."_ There was another burst of laughter.

"What are you, twelve?" Arthur groused when Em came back on. He fished the last of Kay's dirty socks out of his pillowcase, tossed it towards the bathroom door, and climbed into bed.

_"Says the man who has a Mortal Kombat arcade cabinet in his spare room. And besides, it's all in aid of Freya's plan."_

Arthur groaned. "That can’t be good."

_"It's genius, actually. I mean, Gwen just found out that the bloke she's been fantasising about since uni—and her first potentially accessible celebrity crush, given that he's playing on her brother's team—is not only playing for the_ other _team, but also dating one of her best mates on the sly. That's a lot of squished hopes and toes, right?"_

"Mmm." Arthur punched the pillow into a more pleasing shape and settled onto his back, tugging the duvet up to his armpits.

_"So what does our clever Miss Fierce do but explain to her that it's only ever been objectification all along—not like, not love, not destiny—just nice, half-naked, sweaty man-candy inspired lust. And that there's absolutely no reason Gwen need give that up now that she knows you're queer. So I was just helping out. With the objectifying and all. It's the official theme of the evening: Arthur Pendragon, Slab of Meat."_

"I'll have you know I feel horribly used, Emrys. And a bit dirty."

_"I know, right?"_ Em said enthusiastically. _"I mean, um… I did try and put my foot down when they starting Googling pictures of your arse, but Freya assured me that that was the point, because men do it to women all the time. She sends her love by the way."_

"Really?"

_"Well, not in so many words, but you're completely confounding her expectations, in a good way. It's been fun to watch."_

Arthur smiled. "Has she called off the crochet hooks then?"

_"What?"_

"Never mind." The tuneless warbling from the bathroom suddenly grew louder and more melodic. Arthur recognised the tune. "Hey, Em, I'd better go. Kay'll be out soon. He's singing his ball-washing song, and he always does those last."

Em chortled. _"He has a ball-washing song?"_

"Mmm. Made it up when his short hairs came in and has been singing it ever since. Could be a YouTube sensation, but he has an uncanny knack for sensing when someone's sneaking up on him."

_"As the lads say, there is special, and then there's Kay."_

"And then there's Kay," Arthur agreed.

_"Well, we'll be watching tomorrow, over an enormous greasy fry-up, I expect."_

Arthur closed his eyes and made a pitiful noise. _"I_ want an enormous greasy fry-up."

_"Maybe in six months, gorgeous,"_ Em said fondly. _"In the off season. I'll drown you in bacon grease and egg yolks and empty carbs like you wouldn’t believe. That is, if you still—"_

"You'd fucking better," Arthur cut in, unable to stand the way Em's voice had suddenly wavered. "And pastry. I want home-baked cakes and pies, Emrys. You're the only person I know who has mates who bake, and—fair warning—I'm planning on taking full advantage."

_"Oh, um. Right."_

Arthur heard a thump from the bathroom, then the sound of the toilet flushing. "Gotta go, Em," he whispered. 

_"Yeah, okay. Do us proud tomorrow. Can't wait to watch you play."_

Arthur choked up a little at this. He was used to anonymous, fickle fan worship and club expectations—people wishing him well out of club loyalty or for financial gain. It was wonderfully, selfishly nice knowing he had someone who, above all, was cheering just for him.

Arthur hadn’t grown up with many terms of endearment; he certainly didn’t know how to start using them now, but he put as much of his swelling heart as he could into his, "Will do, mate. 'Night," trusting that Em would understand.

He had just enough time to erase his call history and hide his phone under the pillow before Kay emerged from the bathroom, naked and steaming, his towel slung round his shoulders.

"What're you grinning about, Wart? Figured out how to unlock the sick porn channels?"

"Yes, that's it exactly," Arthur deadpanned. "And I charged it all to your card."

"Hey, supposedly there's one that's all pegging. Lemmie rang me up while you were in the shower and made me explain it to Percy. Big P called me a deviant, can you imagine? Just cuz I get a pudge thinking of being bent over by a lady with a rubber cock. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I mean, it's just a bigger version of the sneaky finger, and who doesn't—"

"Oh god, Kay," Arthur groaned. "So not having this discussion with you." He pulled the duvet up over his head, cheeks flaming.

"Huh, I thought you'd—" Kay said. "Oh, okay, whatever. Stinky dreams, Wart. Aw, fuck, man, you found 'em, eh? Have I told you you're no fun anymore? Next away match I'm asking for a new roommate."

Arthur lowered the duvet and grinned. "Like anyone else would willingly have you, you grotty bastard. Now shut your holes—all of them—and get the light. We've a big day tomorrow."

* * *

The match ended in a 2-all draw, which was more than fair considering Camelot could have lost by double that, were it not for Kay. Arthur scored one of the goals off a volley no less—he enjoyed cupping his ear towards Gwaine and mouthing "What?"—and the play was nice and open throughout. 

After the match, North London's star striker, Ravi, caught Arthur up and gestured that he wanted to swap shirts. Ravi was one of Arthur's current idols; on the pitch he was a nigh-unstoppable blur of running with a dazzling power finish. Arthur tried to play it cool, restraining himself to a subdued, "Good game, mate," as he handed his shirt over, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning like a maniac.

"You making good game as well," Ravi said. Then he pulled Arthur into a sweaty hug, thumped him on the back a couple of times, and said, "You good man. Good for… for no taking shit, yes?"

When Ravi released him, Arthur said, "You mean that nonsense with Western Isles?" 

Ravi nodded. He patted the side of Arthur's neck and smiled. "Idiot thing, but very good. Good for bringing attentions to useless arse _chutia_ we is playing with sometimes, yes? I wear with pride." He pulled Arthur's shirt over his head and jogged off with a wave.

Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat and wheeled around to find someone with a goddamn phone to hand. He needed to get a picture, because the fucking Sun God of North London was _wearing his shirt._

As soon as they were back on the bus, Arthur galloped down the aisle shoving Ravi's sweaty shirt in everyone's face like a prize fanboy. Then he draped it reverently around his shoulders and ignored the squad's teasing with, "I'm sorry. Do you have the Sun God's shirt? Do you? Did he want yours? No? Then I can’t hear you."

Eventually Leon slid in beside him and, in his best captain's voice, told Arthur to shut the fuck up about the shirt before Percy, Bors and the other backs shoved it down his throat and convinced the driver to leave Arthur on the side of the M1. Arthur did as he was told, but he couldn’t stop smiling and texting the news and the photo to anyone he could think of.

Old teammates and reserve team coaches congratulated him on the honour Ravi had paid him, Alice in marketing sent him a smiley plus plus, and Morgana texted back, _Two words: public foreplay. Poor Em. Ps he won’t tell you but you got a smirk out of papa dearest. Well played_

Em responded with, _Yesyes we saw think Gwen came a little. U r officially most reediculous jammy thing ever. Does your head fit in bus?_

* * *

The mid-week League Cup match wasn't nearly as much fun—Arthur only played the first half, as Coach wanted his legs fresh for the weekend clash with Borderlands—but at least they won, which secured them a spot in the semi-final. And, seeing as it was their best chance for silverware (barring Albion, Caerleon and North London all crashing and burning spectacularly in the second half of the regular season), the lads went into the first weekend in December in high spirits. 

Friday night was Tristan's stag do, so high spirits—or rather, hard spirits—were exactly what was required. Especially when Arthur saw where the hired car Morgana had sent had brought him. 

He tapped on the privacy screen and signalled the driver to go round the block, then started stabbing keys on his phone.

"Morgana, since when is Tristan's stag happening at the bloody Tuck Club?"

_"Arthur, are you there yet? Leon just rang. They've been waiting for you to set up the room."_

"Morgana, explain!"

Arthur heard his half-sister sigh. _"It wasn't even my idea… entirely. We'd already decided on the 'say goodbye to your cock' theme, but then Viv went out drinking with Gwaine and somehow the Tuck Club came up. And everyone thought it was perfect, even Issie, because it fits with the theme. Literally!"_

"But—"

_"Plus you get good dancers there,"_ Morgana continued breezily. _"None of these bored, half-starved students desperate for drink money. And they do a lovely bar buffet—proper food, not just crisps and pickled eggs. They gave us samples when we stopped by to make the final arrangements. The management were very welcoming, and the crowd is mixed, if that's what you're worried about."_

"Mixed what? Mixed up? Morgana, it's a drag bar," Arthur whispered furiously.

_"No, Arthur, it is an everybody bar,"_ Morgana snapped. _"With gorgeous drag entertainers. Christ, will you listen to yourself? You're being offensive."_

"But I don’t understand why—"

_"Because that's what Tristan wanted, is why! And Leon and Gwaine and everyone else involved in the planning think it's absolute aces, so just get over yourself, quit your queen-bashing, and get in there with the bloody gift bags. Now, or so help me I will come down there and sign you up for amateur night."_

"Don’t even joke about that," Arthur said.

_"Oh, what, so it's okay to like cock up your arse as long as you're a proper lad and not wearing stockings and singing Cher when it happens? It may not be your thing, Arthur, but you're a dirty hypocrite if you condemn it. They're people, working hard at doing something they love, just like you. And—it needs saying—they're being a hell of a lot more honest about who they are while they're doing it."_

"No, it's not that—listen, I don’t really have a problem with—ah, fuck. Morgana, I just meant what if they _know?_ What if they can tell? Or what if someone there recognises me from, well, I went to this club once and—"

_"Arthur, Arthur, hush. Tonight is not about_ you. _Got that? It’s for Tristan. So go see that he drinks too much, tell awful dressing room stories, and take your turn flogging him when asked. And if by chance some queen catches you drooling over the dildos or making cow eyes at Em, act like a gentleman and she'll behave like a lady, all right? A lady never divulges a gentleman's secret. Now will you please stop your whinging and go help my beloved distribute the sex toys."_

They were back in front of the club by this point. The driver slid the screen open and began making polite noises about needing to pick the others up.

Arthur muttered, "Fine, I hear you," rang off, and gathered the large black duffle into which he'd crammed all the gift bags from Lady Viv's. 

As soon as he exited the car and approached the door, a towering bald man in a tuxedo appeared, barring Arthur's way.

"Performer's entrance is round the side, luv," he said, glancing down at the black duffle. He gestured towards a narrow brick alleyway.

"What? I'm not a—I am _not_ here to perform," Arthur said firmly. Then, recalling Morgana's words, he smiled and added, "Not tonight anyway. I'm with the Lyon stag party. The footballers?"

The man regarded him with a bemused expression and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, sorry. I thought—well, too early for punters, an' no offence but I don’t know you from Adam. Don’t watch the football. More of a rugby man meself."

"No offence taken," Arthur said. "It's a fine sport." 

He didn’t add that his father was a rugby man as well. And that, even though Uther had never played beyond college, he never failed to remind his son that his football accomplishments paled in comparison to what he could have achieved if he hadn’t been afraid to "really get stuck in."

It was only now that Arthur was starting to appreciate the irony of the fact that rugby, on the whole, was light-years ahead of football when it came to embracing gay players.

The bouncer smiled, opened the door and gestured Arthur in ahead of him. "You'll be wanting the VIP room—straight past the main stage an' around to your left. I'll just have a squint in the bag first if you don’t mind, darlin'."

Flustered, Arthur set the duffle on the low table inside the entryway and unzipped it. He hoped the man would just do a cursory check to make sure Arthur wasn't bringing in weapons or booze. When he started flicking the gift bags open and nudging the tissue aside, Arthur laughed nervously. 

"Hey, I'm just the errand boy," he said. "This wasn't my idea. Didn't even know what was in there."

"Course not," the man said gently, looking up and catching Arthur's eyes. Arthur struggled not to blink or look away. "Someone's got good taste, though. This is top drawer stuff, this." He re-zipped the duffle and handed it back to Arthur. "Well, you lads enjoy your evening. Hope I won’t have to toss any of you out later."

Head bowed, Arthur turned and took a few steps into the club proper before pausing. This whole thing felt wrong. Here he was, planning to out himself to the men who could make or break him, and he couldn’t even admit to a bouncer in a drag club that he knew what a dildo was?

Six days ago Ravi had worn Arthur's shirt with pride just because Arthur had lost his temper and later given a few interviews attacking racism and homophobia in football. Arthur knew Ravi had endured the former; he had no idea whether or not he was also gay, but either way, what would he think of Arthur now? What would Em think? 

Even Kay, who, although kinky, was as straight as they came, would no doubt have been laughing and cracking jokes with the bouncer, not acting like a shifty, scared little boy.

Arthur turned around. He found the bouncer in a booth, just off the entryway, that was lined with monitors streaming CCTV footage. Arthur rapped on the glass. The man looked up, surprised, and Arthur gestured for him to open the door. 

Arthur held out his hand. "Sorry, mate. Forgot my manners for a minute there. I'm Arthur. Arthur Pendragon."

The man smiled and took Arthur's hand. "Gerry," he said. "Pendragon, you say? As in Pendragon LLP?"

"The very one. He's my father." Arthur shook Gerry's hand and gave it a brief squeeze before letting go. "I've heard good things about this place, and I'll certainly do my best to keep the lads in line. You won’t have any trouble from us, you have my word."

Gerry got an odd smile on his face. For a moment Arthur thought he might be laughing at him, but then he patted Arthur's shoulder and said, "You're ever a rare one, aren’t you? Well, ta then, Arthur Pendragon. Pleasure meeting you."

"Likewise," Arthur said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go spread the joy of the Jolly Roger and Adonis Thunderbolt."

The sound of Gerry's rich, deep chuckle went some way towards easing Arthur's earlier misgivings. He could do this. He could be the man he wanted to be, one encounter at a time.


	17. Tracking Back

As it happened, Arthur's promise to Gerry was just about the only thing that kept him from walking out a few hours into the evening. 

It wasn't the food, the entertainment, or the gobsmacked look on Percy's face when he finally twigged that none of the hostesses perching on his thigh had been born with lady parts. Because all of those things were brilliant.

It wasn't the ridiculousness of standing in a paddling line, red Adonis Thunderbolt in hand, taking his turn smacking Tristan as he squaddie crawled through their legs, nor the embarrassment of being lassoed by Virginia Trap and told that he had gorgeous bone structure, but that his arse would never fit into anything off the rack. Because fake penises were kind of comical, whacking your friends with them was kind of fun, and he did have kind of a big arse.

No, the problem was Em.

Arthur had been looking forward to tonight as a chance to spend an evening out with Em amongst friends. Not _out_ out, of course, but at least together in a place that wasn't work or one of their flats.

He'd envisioned sitting back and listening to Tristan with half an ear while he watched Em smiling and telling Gwaine elaborate stories with his hands—maybe pretending to ignore him, maybe even getting a little jealous, but not minding, really, because he'd know who was going home with whom when they called time.

And, granted, Arthur hadn’t originally envisioned this taking place in a drag club, but even given the somewhat charged setting, Arthur had hoped to carve out a moment or two. Perhaps they would share a heated look over the sex toys or "accidentally" brush hands as they reached for drinks. Or they would simply sit next to one another on the hideous purple sectional sofa that ringed the VIP room, talking to other people and pretending not to notice the warm press of thighs. 

Instead, ever since Em had arrived, he'd been distant and tetchy. He'd greeted the lads warmly enough, but his smile hadn’t reached his eyes. He drank little, floated around the edges of the festivities, and kept slipping out of the room.

Arthur tried texting him and asking what was wrong, but Em only replied with the mysterious, _What isnt?_ and ignored Arthur's follow-up texts.

Whenever Arthur sidled near, Em edged away. Arthur had half a mind to haul him down over his lap and, feigning drunkenness, paddle him with Geisha Sestome's fan until he either lost his bitch face or gave Arthur a very good reason for its existence.

The next time Em disappeared, Arthur followed him.

He lost him in the crush of bodies between the back bar and the loo. Needing a piss, he ducked in to relieve himself, then set off on a more thorough reconnaissance of the club.

The main room was crowded. All the tables were occupied, and clumps of people packed the spaces between them. Arthur side-stepped and slid through the throng, feeling a bit like he was at training. He'd just squeezed between a bevy of banker-types and a snogging lesbian couple when he found himself face to face with none other than Mordred. He'd lightened his hair and was sporting a dodgy moustache, but there was no mistaking those wide, unnerving eyes.

"Hey!" Arthur exclaimed, realising, too late, that he should have just pushed past.

Mordred stared. "Do I know—? Well, well, I believe I do. Arthur Pendragon, in the flesh. Fancy seeing you at the Tuck Club."

Arthur curled his hands into fists and forced himself to remain calm. "Sorry, mate. Don’t think we've met. Just looking for my friend, if you'll excuse me."

He tried to sidestep Mordred, but the little creep blocked him, leaning in and saying, "Looking for a friend, did you say? Perhaps I could help?"

Just then, over Mordred's shoulder, Arthur caught sight of Em emerging from a door next to the main stage. Head bowed, he started making his way back towards the VIP room. 

Arthur briefly considered making his excuses and simply shoving Mordred out of the way—calling out to Em and trying to catch him up. His hand was raised, his lips already parted, when he realised how incredibly stupid this would be.

Of _course_ Mordred recognised him. Arthur's face was all over the telly, and in print, but there was no reason for him to associate Arthur with a random stranger he'd almost pulled months ago at Avalon. But if he saw Arthur and Em together?

Em was pretty unforgettable, even when he wasn't flailing around like a mad thing, spilling drinks and spinning yarns about Arthur being his straight cousin, Gary—and had Em really named him after the club mascot, because that was daft and kind of endearing and oh god he needed to calm down and _think._

Arthur forced a smile. He clapped Mordred on the shoulder and, pretending he was any other fan, said, "Cheers, mate, but that won't be necessary. I bet he's gone back to the VIP room."

As expected, Mordred's face lit up. "So it's true then? The squad's here?"

"Tristan Lyon's stag, but we're keeping it low profile, yeah? Having a bit of a laugh. Would have preferred a night out at Bubbly Jubblies, but the missus-to-be put her foot down, if you know what I mean?" Arthur winked. "I'd best get back. Wish us luck on Sunday, yeah?"

"Yes, but —"

"We appreciate your support," Arthur said, putting on his best press conference voice. He began backing away, grinning ever wider as Mordred’s eyes narrowed. Then, for the first time in his life (in contrast to most of his team-mates), Arthur found himself thinking, _Thank fuck for snogging lesbians,_ because they unwittingly blocked Mordred's advance. 

As fast as he could without drawing attention to himself, Arthur slipped through the crowd and made his way to the club entrance.

A different man was working the door, but Arthur saw Gerry sitting in the booth, headset on, keeping an eye on the CCTV monitors. He waved through the glass to get his attention.

Gerry said something into his headset, pressed a button, then nodded towards the door and motioned for Arthur to join him. He pushed his headset mic out of the way. "Sorry, can't leave me post at the moment. How can I help you, Mister Pendragon?"

"Just Arthur's fine." He closed the door behind him. "I think I might have someone for you to toss out after all."

Gerry had Arthur identify Mordred on the CCTV monitors—Em had been right that few people knew what he actually looked like—then had him wait, hidden at the back of the booth, until his team had removed a protesting Mordred from the club.

* * *

Back in the VIP room, most of the lads were gathered around Tristan and Gwaine, who, steered by two of the queens, were having a blindfolded dildo duel. Em was sitting at the opposite end of the room, sunk deep into the cushions of the sectional sofa.

Arthur marched over. When Em saw him, he started to rise, but Arthur grabbed his arm and sat, forcing him back down.

"Ow, what are you doing?" Em said, frowning at Arthur's hand.

"Mordred. Mordred was here."

"What?" Em looked up at Arthur, eyes wide.

"Don’t worry. Security just got rid of him. I told them who he was, what he gets up to."

"Arthur, that's—well that's good, obviously. Good for you," Em mumbled, looking away again.

_"And_ for you. Em, what the hell is wrong? Where do you keep running off to?"

Em wrenched his arm from Arthur's grasp, shifting so that he was facing Arthur. Arthur's body instinctively responded, remembering recent times on other sofas where this would have meant the beginning of something wonderful, but Em's face was pinched with anger, and Arthur's arousal quickly faded.

"I can't believe you let them have the party here," Em whispered. "And I can't believe you didn’t warn me. Are you really that dead from the neck up, or is this me finding out that your sense of fun is seriously fucked?"

"What? Em, I didn’t _let_ anyone anything. I didn't even know they'd switched venues until the car pulled up outside. Believe me, I wasn't best pleased, but I rang Morgana and she gave me an earful about being a hypocrite."

Em just stared at Arthur, lips compressed into a thin, ugly line.

"It's not so bad, is it?" Arthur said, gesturing lamely towards the cheering throng. "The lads have been behaving themselves, mostly, and the queens are, well, they're a laugh, aren't they?"

"A laugh." Em said flatly.

"Not a laugh as in a joke. Just, well, they're alright, is all I'm saying. Funny. Clever."

Arthur saw Em's expression soften slightly and decided to take a chance. He nudged Em's knee with his own, then skimmed his left hand along the seat of the sofa until it was resting near Em's right hip. His dress shirt was untucked. Arthur slid his hand underneath the hem and pushed up until his fingertips found bare flesh. Em tensed, but Arthur persisted, rubbing small circles onto the taut skin.

"Hey," Arthur continued, "did you hear Bors asking Secretia Porsche for advice on the missus? He was dead serious too. And I think Gareth might be a little in love with Winsome Liu Sum."

Em huffed out a breath, his body relaxing. Arthur thought he'd won until Em grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand away.

"Arthur, has is really not occurred to you that—no, never mind, I am not doing this here."

Arthur withdrew his rejected hand and crossed his arms over his chest. "Not doing what?"

"Trying to explain what should be the _bleeding obvious._ Honestly, Arthur, I don’t know if I want to fuck you or punch you right now, but either way I'm certain we don't want the squad watching. So can we please leave? Now?"

Arthur had never gotten so hard, so quickly, in his adult life. It was disturbing, actually, because Em's face was still tense and splotchy with anger, and his tone was harsh. Yet Arthur was hard as fucking nails because all that intensity was focused on _him_ and, any way he parsed Em's statement, it had definitely included the words, "I want to fuck you."

He swallowed. "I—"

A loud cheer erupted from the squad, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Arthur winced.

"I can’t, Em. Not yet. I promised the bouncer I'd make sure the lads don’t get out of hand, and it's not yet midnight."

Em looked mutinous. Arthur restrained the urge to reach for him. Instead he said, "Please, just give it another hour, yeah? Then we'll go. I promise."

Em studied Arthur for a long moment. Then he nodded curtly and copied Arthur's posture, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine."

After a few minutes of strained silence Arthur added, "And could you try to relax a little?"

Em glared at Arthur. He reached out and snagged an open bottle of champagne from a passing hostess.

"I'll have that. Cheers, gorgeous," he said, suddenly all toothy smile and dimples. He tilted his head back and chugged until he started coughing, champagne spraying out his nose.

"Easy does it, darling," the queen said. "There's more where that came from, but only one of you."

"Em, what the fuck?" Arthur said.

"I'm doing as you suggested. I'm trying to _relax."_

Em's eyes were watering, and there was champagne all down his chin and neck. Arthur exchanged a concerned look with the hostess.

"He wants looking after, sugar," she said quietly, handing Arthur a stack of cocktail napkins. "Can you do that for me?"

Arthur was just about to say that that was bloody obvious, and that he would be doing it for _himself_ thank you very much, when Gwaine plopped down on the other side of Em, plucking the bottle from his hands.

"Ah, just the thing. A cockfight always leaves me with a powerful thirst." He took a slug from the bottle.

The queen tittered and patted her enormous blond beehive. "Isn't that the truth, dollface. Now, why don’t you come tell Miss Honey Potts all about it. Did you win? I'll bet you did, you cheeky rogue." She pulled a grinning Gwaine up off the sofa and back towards the rest of the group, shooting Arthur a pointed look over her shoulder. Arthur nodded.

"Fuck," Em muttered as Arthur mopped his face. "Fine. Whatever. You do what you need to do. When you're ready to leave come find me at the back bar." He batted Arthur's hands away and pushed himself up off the sofa.

"Em, I don't think—"

"I won't be drinking myself legless, if that's what you're worried about. I just don’t think I can sit here playing tourist with you and the whole happy hetero mob any longer, alright?"

Stung, Arthur watched Em say his goodbyes to Gwaine and Elyan and whoever else wasn't engrossed in the latest drinking game.

Was that really what was bothering Em? And was that what he really thought of the lads?

Literacy in Freya-speak aside, Em had never struck Arthur as especially militant when it came to his own sexuality. As he'd told Arthur, he didn't exactly hide it, but he didn’t make a big issue of it in public. When they discussed issues of rights or discrimination, more often than not it was Arthur who worked up a temper while Em smiled indulgently.

As for the team, as far as Arthur knew Em got on well with them. He always had a ready joke or clever comeback, and his hands really _were_ a bit magic. He also had an uncanny knack for remembering the names of wags, pets and children, and whether or not Gareth's mum was ill on any given week.

Was that all an act? Did Em secretly hate every minute he had to spend listening to Myror's anecdotes about taking Constance and the kids to Disneyland Paris or Gwaine's rhapsodising about the women of Miami and Marbella?

Arthur wasn't allowed to wonder these questions for long, however, as he was soon dragged into a dramatic re-enactment of the time the under-17s had debagged Kay in front of a statue of Thatcher (and the subsequent debate over whether or not his knob had stood to attention, the sick bastard).

* * *

By half-past midnight, it was clear to Arthur that much of the team had passed the happily saturated high point of the evening and started sliding downhill into drunk and disorderly.

Lemmie and Geraint's friendly piss-taking took on a loud, ugly edge. Some of the lads started to get aggressively handsy with the hostesses, while others, who'd thought the queens all well and good for a song and dance, started making noises about getting their paws on some "proper totty." 

Arthur had a word with Leon and, together with Lance, managed to convince the single lads that it would be best to move things on to The Mill and the others to either go home or back to Leon's for poker.

Gerry helped round up taxis for those who weren't going with Leon. He then kept Lemmie and Geraint apart while Arthur and Leon sorted everyone into the hired cars or taxis, depending on where they were headed. 

Arthur had his excuses at the ready, but in the shuffle no one questioned why he was staying behind. At last, Leon gave him a sloppy, brandy-scented kiss on the forehead and dove into the back seat of one of the hired cars, eliciting groans from its occupants. Arthur waved them off and, as soon as they'd gone, followed Gerry back inside.

"Off just in time, I'd say," Gerry remarked.

"Yeah," Arthur said. "Sorry about those two hooligans."

"Don't mention it. That was nothing compared to the average Friday." Gerry removed his headset and ran a hand over his smooth head, pausing here and there to scratch. "You staying on then? The Divine Miss Terry is on soon, and she's something else."

"Nah, I've just got to grab my mate, then I'll be off. Can I trouble you for one more taxi?"

"Will do." Gerry signalled to his colleague in the booth, a beefy young man with flaming ginger hair and no neck, and turned back to Arthur. "Ta again for the tip-off earlier. More than me job's worth, letting his type in."

"You weren't to know," Arthur said.

"How did you, if I can stick my beak in?"

Arthur studied the tips of his shoes for a moment, considering. Apart from Gerry and the beefy ginger, who was sequestered in the booth with his headset on, there was no one else about. It was between acts on the main stage, but the lively crowd and the canned club music created an ambient wall of sound.

Arthur looked up and leaned in. "My… my mate and I, we had a run-in with him once. At Avalon. You know it?"

Arthur had expected a knowing nod, maybe a wink and a nudge, but not the sea change in Gerry's demeanour. The streetwise, slightly intimidating aura melted away and he suddenly appeared years younger, slack-jawed and happy and a bit lost. He clapped one hand over his heart.

"Do I know Avalon? I met the love of my fucking life in Avalon, darlin'. Twenty-five years back, when it was just a simple bar on Halsey Street. We've been together every day since."

Normally Arthur would have found it uncomfortable, seeing so much raw emotion in the face of someone he barely knew, but with Gerry it felt like a privilege.

"It has grown a bit since," Arthur said, trying to lighten the moment. "Three floors, flashy lights, dyke nights."

Gerry smiled. "An' they only let the queens rule on alternate Thursdays. Oh, I know. We may be old, luv, but we still get out on occasion." He reached a hand towards Arthur's face but then seemed to remember himself. "Listen to me, nattering on when you've got someone waiting."

"No, it's all right." Arthur said. "It's nice to know that—well, that you can have, that you can find someone and…"

Inexplicably, Arthur felt tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd cried. Oh, wait, yes he could. It had been that night at Avalon.

"Oh, luv," Gerry murmured, and lay a hand on Arthur's shoulder. It was awkward and heavy. "None of them lot know, do they? Or the gaffer?"

Arthur shook his head. Then added, "A few of them do, but for the most part, no."

"Christ but I wouldn’t want to be in your boots."

"I'm going to change that though." Arthur wiped his eyes and met Gerry's gaze.

"Are you now? Well hell, duckie, don't glare at me like that—I believe you. From the moment you stuck your hand out all earnest like an' gave me your name I thought, 'There's a brave lad.' I was only surprised, was all. Lad in your position, looking as you do, with the dosh you bring in, you could easily pass."

"Pass?"

"For straight. Take the punters' money and do what you like with it on the quiet, like."

"But I want—"

And suddenly Arthur thought he understood part of why Em was so upset. If they'd been at The Mill or The Granary or half a dozen other Camelot hot spots, they would have been surrounded by straight couples kissing, touching and dancing, and it would have been bittersweet, or perhaps irritating, but not devastating.

However, the crowd at the Tuck Club was, as Morgana had said, mixed. As Arthur had witnessed, couples of all sorts felt free to engage in as much public affection as they desired. But because he and Em were with the squad, and Arthur was not out to all of his teammates, because these same teammates were people Em had to work with every day… 

_Fucking shite,_ Arthur thought. 

Em kept his personal life separate, but if anyone from work stumbled into Em’s personal life—well, normally they could take him on his own terms or go fuck themselves. Tonight, because of Arthur, he’d been forced into hiding in one of the places where he shouldn’t have had to. 

"You alright there, luv?"

Arthur looked up to find Gerry gazing at him with concern.

"Yeah, just—I need to find my mate. Boyfriend, actually. I think I may have royally fucked things up."

Gerry smiled. "Ah, I see. Darlin', listen to an old queen. If you have a go at him with half the balls and one-tenth the heart you've shown tonight, not to mention those lovely blue eyes, he'll forgive you or he won’t be worth the skin he was born in. Now, you go fetch him an' I'll make sure no one snaffles your taxi."

Arthur found Em, as promised, at the back bar. He was giving a neck rub to a slender young man in a sequined gown who Arthur recognised as Honey Potts by the great lump of blond wig dangling from one hand.

The place was still packed, despite the hour, and Arthur was horribly conscious of all the potential eyes, all the potential tongues and ears and mobiles that could suddenly make life much more difficult—not only for him and Em, but for the entire team and those who made their money off it.

However, he was still raw from his encounter with Gerry. So instead of waving discreetly or texting Em to meet him out front, he approached the bar and slung an arm round his shoulders.

"Hey you. I've got a taxi with our name on it."

Em started, as did Miss Potts, who whipped round and, seeing Arthur, jammed her wig back on her head.

"Apologies," Arthur said. "Didn’t mean to startle you." One thick blond lock had come undone and was hanging awkwardly. He reached out, looped it round his finger and tucked it back up with the rest. "There you are, gorgeous," he said. "Good as new."

Em and Miss Potts stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"What?" Arthur said.

Miss Potts prodded Em in the chest with two long teal fingernails. "I think you'd better go with him, doll. Cuz if you won’t, I will."

"Thank you, but I'm well besotted with this lump of misery," Arthur said, and grasped Em by the back of his neck. "Shall we?"


	18. Tiki-Taka

The ride back to Arthur's flat was excruciating.

He'd never been more grateful for his mandatory media training, because while it hadn't specifically addressed how to discuss terraces vs. all-seaters when all he really wanted to do was make a hot, sticky mess of another man's clothes in the back of a taxi, it had given him the tools to string a few coherent, heartfelt-sounding sentences together without much effort.

Em wasn't saying a word. He'd taken one of the fold-down seats facing Arthur, long legs angled out in front of him. As Arthur chatted to the driver (who as luck would have it was a die-hard supporter), Em just _stared._ Arthur could only read his expression piecemeal, in the pulses of light from cross traffic and sodium street lamps, but what he saw made his palms sweat and goosebumps prickle down the back of his neck.

He felt like he had all those weeks ago at the Citadel, staring up from the treatment room table at a fascinating stranger. Except now there was no physical pain, no paralysing fear, just the burning revelation that he _wanted_ this man. Desperately.

It was clear that there was still so much Arthur didn’t know about Em and parts of Em's world, but he did know that it had felt good to tell Gerry the truth. It had felt good to put his arm around Em at the bar, flirt a little, and see that _expression_ on his face—that pleased, dumbfounded expression that had only intensified as Arthur had forged a path back to the club entrance, never letting go of Em's hand. It had remained fixed through introductions with Gerry. However, as soon as they'd settled into the taxi, it had turned into this wicked, calculating thing that was making Arthur squirm in his seat.

By the time they _finally_ reached Arthur's building, he was wound so tight he jerked when Em nudged his foot. Em held up his hands in silent apology and raised an eyebrow.

Arthur sighed, knowing what Em was asking.

The driver knew exactly who Arthur was and where he'd picked him up. He'd caught his dubious expression at finding Camelot's new number nine being fondly waved off by the Tuck Club's bouncer. And no amount of blokey chat could offset the fact that Em, in his slim black trousers, white dress shirt, and pink, petulant mouth, looked exactly like what Arthur imagined Central Casting would want for the role of "Hot Gay Waiter."

Arthur nodded. Better safe than sorry.

Em stumbled out of the taxi, mumbling and swaying and generally putting in an award-worthy performance as someone who would much rather be horizontal.

As Arthur handed the fare over, he leaned in conspiratorially and said, "We were at a stag do. My mate's a bit blotto and the missus won’t let him in when he's like that. Know what I mean?"

The driver chuckled. "Oh, do I. I remember those days very well. Had one of 'em Friday last, in fact. Lads got to stick together."

Not so much hating himself for the lie but for the fact that, once again, it had been accepted so readily, Arthur turned and slung Em's arm around his neck. 

"Come on, mate," he said jovially. "Let's get you sorted."

Em pretended to stumble, slumping against Arthur for a moment. "Yes, please," he whispered into Arthur's open collar. Arthur shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chilly December air.

He helped Em into the lobby vestibule, where they repeated the performance for the benefit of the night porter, who smilingly shook his head as he buzzed them into the lobby proper. 

It was a short walk, a long wait and an interminable ride up in the lift until, at last, they were inside Arthur's flat, away from prying eyes and CCTV cameras.

* * *

The instant the door was locked behind them, Arthur rounded on Em. He crowded him against the wall, took his face in both hands and kissed him. He forgot to tilt his head though, so it ended up being more of a nose-mashing.

"Sorry, sorry," Arthur said breathlessly in response to Em's grunt. He angled his head and dove in again, licking at Em's lips with just the tip of his tongue and then sucking them gently into his mouth.

"Using my—mmpf, ah—own tricks against me?" Em murmured.

"Um, maybe." Arthur slid his hands down to Em's neck. He leaned in, rubbed his cheek against Em's, and whispered, "I really like it when you do that. No one's ever kissed me like that before. It gets me so fucking hard."

Em shivered as he exhaled. Then, with no warning, he surged forward, shoving Arthur up against the opposite wall. The nearby mirror rattled ominously in its frame.

"Hey watch—"

Em clapped his left hand over Arthur's mouth, insinuating his right between their bodies and palming Arthur's crotch.

"Oh, really?" he said. He removed his left hand and replaced it with his mouth, doing the licking and sucking thing and then—ohgod—flicking his tongue against the underside of Arthur's upper lip, right in the centre, teasing the little swell of flesh there like he'd done once to Arthur's nipples. "Why, yes. I can feel that it does."

Arthur instinctively tried to buck his hips forward, but Em had him pinned too tightly. All he could do was clench the muscles in his groin, pressing back against the unyielding cup of Em's hand.

"Fuck, Em," he said.

"Hmm. We could do," Em said slowly, nuzzling the side of Arthur's neck. "But didn’t that bouncer say—what was his name again?" He gently squeezed Arthur's cock.

"Ge-Gerry," Arthur stuttered.

"Yes, your new mate, Gerry. He said you needed to apologise to me. Said a nice long chat would sort us right out."

Arthur groaned. "Yes, but. Couldn't it wait? Been watching you, wanting to touch you. Wanting you to make good on all your threats and finally—"

"Ah-ah," Em tutted, suddenly pulling his hand away and stepping back. "Chat first. And apologies. Gerry said."

Arthur took several deep breaths. He could definitely think more clearly without Em's hand on his cock, but he wasn't sure it was a good trade-off. 

"He also told you to go easy on me," Arthur said. "Oh, no, don’t you go all wide-eyed. I was there. I heard him. So just—" Arthur grabbed Em's arm and pulled him back in for a kiss, shoving his thigh between Em's legs and rubbing up and down. "Go. Easy."

Arthur had noticed that Em seemed to have a thing about his thighs; that he liked stroking them, nuzzling them, and especially getting off against them. He reminded Arthur of Leon's horny spaniels in that regard.

As hoped, Em sort of melted, wrapping himself around Arthur and breathing out heavily through his nose.

"Easy what?" he mumbled.

"Just easy. Yeah, like that," Arthur said, smiling against Em's mouth. He skimmed his hands down Em's sides and grasped his hips, giving a tug as he hitched his leg up, effectively hauling Em onto his thigh.

"Arthur, oh. That's really… um, probably not good for your adductors, or your knee, or your—"

"Don't care," Arthur murmured. "I have an excellent physiotherapist who'll sort me out if I strain something. But I doubt I will. See, he's been having me recondition my muscles. It's all about balancing strength—" Arthur flexed his thigh. "—and flexibility. Which I will demonstrate once we are in bed."

"Bed, hrm. Flexible. Ah, yes, but—"

"Gerry _also_ said I'd be worth the hassle," Arthur said, nosing at the hair near Em's temple.

Superficially, he could smell stale food odours from the club and something flowery, probably a queen's perfume or hairspray. But when he burrowed in closer he could smell Em: the fading scent of shampoo, and beneath that, skin. Arthur inhaled deeply. He ground Em down onto his thigh and thrilled at the way his breath went all ragged in response.

"And you should really listen to Gerry. He is wise, Em. Wise in the ways of the gay."

Em shuddered. Arthur thought he'd won, but then the shudder turned to laughter and Em was pulling away.

"You almost had me there, you slippery fuck!"

"Huh?" Arthur blinked, frowning. The entry hall light was very bright, Em's scent was gone, and there was suddenly far too much distance between their bodies.

"The thigh thing. You almost had me. But you need to work on your chat-up lines. 'Wise in the ways of the gay'? Really, that's just _awful."_

"Aren't I allowed to say crap like that, now that I am officially part of the brotherhood, or team, or whatnot? And it wasn't a chat-up line. I was just trying to explain that clearly Gerry thinks I'm a good bet, and as he's been with his partner for _a quarter of a century,_ he ought to know."

Em tilted his head, regarding Arthur with a bemused expression.

"Arthur, you couldn't be any more of a cheeseball if my mam served you up with celery and crackers."

Arthur clenched his fists. He felt very warm, very stupid and just this side of angry. He'd been so certain, based on the looks they'd shared in the taxi, that they were meant to be fucking by now. Or possibly having a fight that would end in fucking.

Instead, they hadn't made it past a fully clothed, mildly aggressive snog-and-grope session in the entry hall, and now Em was _mocking_ him.

Then Em gave Arthur one of his blinding grins, and Arthur minded the mocking much less. He supposed mocking could lead to fucking just as well as fighting could.

"Speaking of cheese—I'm starving. I was too upset to eat much earlier." Em grabbed Arthur's hand and tugged him down the entry hall. "Come on, tell me you have at least one toastie maker in your vast arsenal of mono-functional kitchen appliances."

Dazed and wondering just where the hell toasties fit into the fucking scheme of things, Arthur followed.

* * *

To Em's great delight, Arthur did indeed have a toastie maker. He wrangled it out of storage and set it up on the worktop.

"I can take it from here," Em said brightly, already poking around in Arthur's fridge. "If you'll just point me towards the utensils and such?"

Arthur pulled out the chopping block and showed Em where to find the cutlery. Then, still feeling off-kilter, he poured himself a glass of water and retreated to the breakfast island.

Watching Em make himself at home in the kitchen, Arthur became fascinated by his hands. It’s not that they were anything special to look at—though he did have broad palms and long, insistent-looking fingers—but there was something about the way he used them. A confidence. An incredible awareness, like he was _listening_ with them, touching things exactly the way they needed to be touched.

"You want one?" Em said, looking up from slicing a tomato.

Arthur was put in mind of something old Geoffrey at the academy used to say when they watched footage of Johan Cruyff flying down the pitch, shaming defenders left and right: that the ball loved his feet so much, it dared not leave them.

"Arthur?" Em jerked his head towards the toastie maker. "You want one?"

Arthur started. "What? Oh, no thanks. Not hungry." He took a sip of water.

"Ate your fill of those cocktail sausages?"

Arthur opened his mouth, fully intending to say something clever and suggestive—Em's lewd smirk signalling that this was clearly a chance to get things back on track—but what came out was, "You're really good with your hands, mate."

Em's smirk turned into a full-fledged smile. "That is what they pay me for, Captain Obvious. Well, except when I'm a pushover and do it for free, like tonight. Can’t seem to pass up a queen in need."

"No, not just with work stuff," Arthur said, gesturing at the chopping block. "With everything, you know. Like that tomato..."

"The tomato?" Em said, smile fading into a look of puzzlement. Or possibly concern for Arthur's sanity.

"Yes, it—" Arthur began. _It loves your hands like balls loved Cruyff's feet,_ he wanted to say, but that didn’t sound right at all, did it? 

"Never mind," he muttered. He drained his glass of water and decided to make another go of it. "Just, I meant I like watching you work with your hands, whatever you're doing."

"Yeah?" Em lowered his eyes and started deftly layering slices of cheese and tomato on the bread. "Thank you, Arthur."

Em's cheeks were noticeably pinker than they had been a moment ago. Arthur quite liked that look. As Em made and ate his toasties, Arthur tried to come up with a plan for resuming his seduction, wondering where else he might be able to make Em go pink. 

Obviously he needed to pay close attention to his brain-to-mouth filter. He should also probably apologise for… well, whatever it was he was supposed to be apologising for. Expecting too much of Em? Being insensitive? Still being so fucking clueless when it came to being a gay man out and about in the world?

But how was he supposed to apologise when Em kept doing things with his hands, distracting things like fondling cutlery and _putting food into his mouth,_ all the while sneaking little glances at Arthur, watching him like he knew _exactly_ what Arthur was thinking, the bloody tease, and—

Arthur stood abruptly and carried his empty glass over to the sink. Even though the glass had only contained water, he made a meal of rinsing it; he used the respite to arrange his words in his mind, just like Coach diagrammed formations on his chalkboards.

Resolutely, Arthur turned round. "I—" he began, but just then Em started licking cheese grease and dribbles of tomato juice from his fingers, and his game plan went south.

_I'm sorry, but I forgot what I was going to say because apparently I have less control over my hormones than I did when I was thirteen._

"Need a slash. Back in a tic," he blurted, and retreated to the guest bathroom.

After adjusting his dick in his trousers, Arthur splashed his face and the back of his neck with cool water. He contemplated bashing his head against the mirror, but instead told his reflection to grow a pair.

He was in his own flat with his own boyfriend, for fuck's sake. If he wanted sex, then he should just ask for it. If Em said no, or insisted on having some sort of drawn-out discussion first then… well, Arthur could always excuse himself for a wank. To clear his head, so to speak.

Arthur marched into the kitchen. The toastie maker was unplugged, its cord neatly coiled beside it with the points tucked in. Everything else had been cleared away. Em was standing at the sink, his back to Arthur, sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

Arthur slipped in behind him.

"Leave that," he said.

Em glanced back over one shoulder. "Almost finished."

"Leave it," he commanded, pushing up against Em. He pressed his forehead to the back of Em's neck, reaching around and smoothing his hands down Em's bare forearms. He heard a clunk as whatever Em had been rinsing dropped into the stainless steel basin. The tap switched off.

"Em, look. I realise how shite tonight was for you. I realise that I'm still a selfish, closeted, ignorant fuckwad in many ways." He breathed in deeply, fortifying himself with a whiff of Em's skin. "I also realise that I probably don’t deserve you, but I'm trying to, you know I am."

Em twisted round in his grasp, eyes bright, wet hands leaving prints on Arthur's shirt. "Seriously, Arthur? Don’t _deserve_ me? That's utter bol—oh, shite, you _are_ serious, aren’t you?" 

Arthur shrugged, trying not to find the fact that Em suddenly looked like a prize carp too endearing.

"Well, yeah. But right now I don’t much give a fuck, because I _am_ selfish." Arthur covered one of Em's hands with his own, pressing it against his chest. He forced himself to hold Em's gaze. "Because right now I want you, Emmett. Inside me, as close as you can get, and I want you to stop being so bloody _careful._ I'm an elite athlete in my goddamn prime. You can take what you need. You're not going to break me. Alright?"

Em's jaw dropped even further. He opened and closed it a few times, blinking furiously.

"I'm not going to break—jaysus, Arthur." He slipped his hand from beneath Arthur's and prodded him in the chest. "I know you're well fit, in every sense. It’s not about that. It's never been about that. It's… well, it's not all about _you,_ alright?"

Arthur snorted. "Who's being Captain Obvious now? Of course it's not all about me. If it were, I'd have come by now—several times—all on my lonesome."

With a wild laugh, Em buried his face in his hands. "Ah, Arthur, fuck," he muttered. "Fuck, _Arthur."_

"Well, yes," Arthur said, exasperated. "Exactly." He reached for Em's wrists, pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were squeezed shut. "Em, what is it?"

With a sigh, Em opened his eyes.

"Arthur, have you ever stopped to consider that maybe I've been waiting as much for my own sake as for yours?" 

"Um."

Em gave a wry smile. He slipped his wrists from Arthur's grip and twined their fingers together instead. "Didn’t think so. You know, just because I've been out since forever doesn't mean that I automatically want to have anal sex with every man who looks at me twice."

"I should fucking hope not," Arthur exclaimed. "Just how many men—"

"Even if that man is you, Arthur," Em cut in, squeezing Arthur's hands. _"Especially_ if that man is you."

Arthur felt as if he'd been slapped. He pulled away. "What, why? Why not, I mean, with me?"

Em looked down at where their hands had been joined, then back up at Arthur. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he came out with, "Sometimes it's just sex, but sometimes it _isn't."_

As if that explained everything. 

Arthur scowled.

"It wouldn't be just sex with you," Em said. He stared expectantly at Arthur for a long moment, then deflated, shoulders slumping.

"Oh, who am I fooling?" he said bitterly. "It _already_ isn't, but I thought, when you move on, it would hurt me less if we hadn't, if I hadn’t got used to—christ, Arthur, look at you! You're…"

"I'm what?" Arthur demanded. 

Em winced. Arthur hadn’t meant to sound so angry, but really, what was Em on about? And why was he already envisioning the end of their relationship, when it was just kicking off?

"Okay, don’t get me wrong. I like myself well enough, and I know I'm not hideous, but men like you… well, you don’t usually _exist,_ for one thing." Suddenly Em's hands were flying everywhere, pointing, carving the space between them. "Except in American films. And wank fantasies. And discerning sections of the internet." He blinked and scrubbed at his face. "Anyways, point being that if you _do,_ you don't usually end up with blokes like me. So excuse me for being a bit guarded."

"Blokes like you?"

Arthur squared off against Em like he was an obstinate defender. "What, sexy, successful blokes who can cope with what I do for a living? Blokes who are funny and kind and so bloody clever, who I can barely look at sometimes for wanting? Yeah, you're right. Don’t know what I could possibly see in blokes like that. _Clearly_ I should be setting my sights higher."

Em's eyes went impossibly wide. "Shite, Arthur, that’s—really?"

Jaw clenched, Arthur nodded once.

He longed to walk away—his ego practically demanded it—but something rooted him to the spot. He settled for looking Em up and down aggressively. He wanted to punish him for devaluing himself like that, for holding back when Arthur was willing to risk everything.

No, not punish. Never punish. But he did want to get it through Em's thick bloody skull, once and for all, that he did not commit to things lightly. Not things that mattered.

"Do you want to know what I thought when I first saw you?" he said sharply. "I thought you were the best thing I'd ever seen. In my whole _life,_ Emrys. I was in pain and out of my mind with worry about the injury, but there you were and I could barely fucking think or breathe. I wanted you, even though then I thought it could only lead to disaster. But it hasn't, and though the circumstances have been less than ideal, I wouldn’t trade the past couple of months for anything."

Em gave him the strangest look, wary but excited. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. So don’t you _dare_ be guarded with me, you selfish prick." Arthur was trying to decide whether to kiss or throttle Em when, mercifully, the decision was taken out of his hands.

Em leaned forward and locked his lips onto Arthur's, withdrawing only long enough to mumble, "Arthur, _bed,"_ before diving back in again. Then they were reeling across the floor in an uncoordinated four-legged race that took far too long considering they both really, _really_ wanted to end up in the same place.


	19. Goooal!

Arthur wanted to get their kit off as fast as possible, but Em kept batting his hands away, clearly intent on being in charge of the stripping. Arthur acquiesced, settling for twisting and shrugging as directed and sneakily popping open the odd the shirt button or two.

They were still working at cross purposes though, because Em seemed to think they should continue kissing as he stripped them, while Arthur—who realised that he'd never experienced Em fully naked before—wanted to put his mouth on whatever new bits were exposed.

"Wait, wait," Arthur said once the last sock has been tossed haphazardly into a corner. "Stay there." He placed a hand on Em's heaving chest, then clambered onto the bed, sitting back on his heels.

"What?" Em already had one knee on the bed, poised to follow.

"No! Stay there, I said." 

_"Arthur."_

"I want to look at you, alright? Just for a minute. I've only ever seen you in pieces."

Em huffed, but he stood back up. He settled his weight onto one hip and crossed his arms over his chest, as if trying to hide the blush radiating out from his collarbones.

Arthur didn’t know why. He rather liked all the pink and red in contrast to Em's pale skin and dark hair. It was like being faced with a slab of Neapolitan ice cream—pink, white and brown—and having the wonderful dilemma of deciding which flavour to taste first. Not that he would _ever_ admit the comparison aloud.

Arthur licked his lips unconsciously, his gaze travelling over Em's body. He hadn’t had an ice cream in an abysmally long time. Or Em in over a week. They really needed to live closer to one another, or at least along better train routes.

"Are we done yet?"

"Hey, you see me starkers all the time," Arthur protested. "It's only fair I get to ogle you for a change. Drop your arms."

"It's not my fault your lot whip your kit off every chance you get," Em said testily, but he uncrossed his arms, straightened up and clasped them behind his back. "Elena has a theory about that, you know."

Arthur grinned. Em looked good like this, somewhere between aroused and irritated, his broad shoulders pulled back and his hips canted slightly forward. "Oh, what's that?"

"That there's a very fine line between footballers and fanatical naturists. Me, I think it's just rampant narcissism."

"Speaking of rampant…" Arthur gestured towards Em's cock. It had been half-hard when they'd undressed, pink and pudgy but still wrinkled-looking, poking out from the dark thatch between Em's legs. As he'd stood there, absorbing Arthur's gaze, it had filled and stretched, jutting up towards his belly. Now it was darker than his nipples, almost the same bruised color as his lips.

Em, who had quite pointedly not been looking below Arthur's neck, flicked his gaze to Arthur's crotch. "You're one to talk."

Feeling bold, Arthur lay back, propping himself up on his elbows and letting his legs fall open. "So I like looking at you. Sue me."

"I'd much rather suck your cock," Em said matter-of-factly.

"I've a better idea," Arthur said, planting his feet on the bed and thrusting his bottom forward. "Why don’t you get over here and put that lovely tackle of yours to good use."

Barely were the words out of his mouth before Arthur found himself being kissed fiercely as he was pressed back into the mattress by a warm, writhing, _naked_ Em. Arthur was never going to let him get away with partially-clothed frottage again, at least not when they were in private.

"God, you really want this, don't you?" Em murmured, slipping one hand down and running his fingertips over Arthur's hole.

Arthur twitched, fighting the urge to clench. "Oh, now he gets it." He slid a hand into Em's hair and buried his nose in the side of his neck. "Christ, Em, I was beginning to think I'd have to have them announce it over the tannoy, or commission an airplane banner."

Em chuckled, the sound warm and rich in Arthur's ear. "That'd go over well with management, not to mention the punters."

"Hey, it's no worse than the shite some of them sing every week."

"True." Em sighed. "Because clearly the vilest insult in all the land is the insinuation that a man might enjoy _this."_ He started rubbing a firm line down the skin between the base of Arthur's balls and his hole, pressing the pads of his fingers in slightly at the end of every stroke. "Oh, the horror, right?"

Arthur's only response was a pleased hum.

He let go of Em and collapsed back, arms flung above his head. This was so _little,_ really, compared to other times Em had touched him down there, or how he touched himself, but it was also so much more.

It felt brilliant, but wasn't enough to make him come, so it was all about the anticipation—like a continual hit of matchday adrenaline without the attendant jitters. Also, he didn't have to do a thing. If he wanted to, he could lie back and let Em take care of him. He could close his eyes, lie back and just _feel insanely good._

Arthur made more appreciative noises and shifted, pressing into Em's touch.

"You're ridiculous, you know that," Em said fondly, curling his fingers and rubbing his knuckles against Arthur's perineum. "How did you even survive this long without regular arse worship? Or is that one of the academy's deep dark secrets?"

"Wouldn't you like to—ohhh." One of Em's knuckles slipped inside just as his forearm brushed against Arthur's cock.

"Hmm, I think it's time for some slick. Luckily," Em withdrew his hand, patting Arthur's thigh, "I am dating a man whose bedroom is decorated in Sex Shop Modern."

Arthur opened his eyes and angled his head so he could watch Em knee-walk up towards the headboard. Most of the gear Morgana had gifted him was still arrayed on the ledge above.

"Actually, it's Twenty-First Century Lady Viv's."

Em pulled a face. "Ugh, don't remind me. Tonight's been weird enough; I really don’t need to think about the fact that your half-sister bought you the lube I'm about to fuck you with. Hey, where's the Maximus? I know I saw some in here last week."

"Oh—ah—I probably left it in the bathroom. Hang on, I'll—"

"No, don't you move a muscle." Em smiled down at him. "I'll fetch it. Condoms in there too?"

"Nah. Drawer to my right."

Arthur watched Em's pert, pasty bum cross the bedroom and disappear into the en suite. Then, bubbling over with nervous energy, he sat up, yanking and kicking the duvet down to the foot of the bed. He snagged one pillow for his head, shoved another under his hips and flopped back into position.

"What have you been doing, bathing in it?" Em called out. "The bottle's half-empty."

"I've been randy a lot lately." 

Arthur heard the sound of the tap running and, feeling reckless, reached down between his legs. He cupped his balls, pulling them up and out of the way. With his other hand he reached behind, skimming a fingertip over the path Em had been tracing, pressing lightly against his puckered entrance.

"Making up for lost ti—" Em froze as he caught sight of Arthur, his words trailing off into a strangled whine.

Arthur whipped his hands away and put them back above his head. He grinned at Em sheepishly.

Em blinked and swallowed. Brow furrowed, he returned to the side of the bed, setting the pump bottle of lube and a face flannel on the nightstand. 

"Sorry," Arthur said. "Got excited. Plus, I hate washing the duvet cover; it never—oh, I should probably shut up now, right? Should I shut up? Or do you like telling me to? Why are you looking at me like that? Hey, if I ruined it you can go out and come in again; I promise I won’t move this—"

"Arthur, _Arthur."_

Arthur clapped a hand over his mouth, then, realising he'd moved again, shrugged in mute apology— _dammit!_

Em shook his head, smiling gently. "If we were going to seriously play like that, we would have talked about it first. Like, ideally before the naked happened."

"Oh."

Em opened the drawer and began rummaging inside, his eyes darting between Arthur and the nightstand. "Do you _want_ me to tell you to shut up though?"

Arthur shrugged again. "I didn't mind it in Wessex. It was kind of hot, actually."

"Yeah, well." Em paused, box of condoms in hand. He bowed his head, ripped the box open and shook a few condoms onto the nightstand. He glanced up at Arthur, dropping the box back into the drawer. "For this, I'd like to hear you. Until I've a better sense of what you enjoy, okay?"

Arthur nodded, overcome by the thought that Em was going to be _listening_ to his inevitable babbling and ridiculous sex noises in order to _fuck him better._

"Yes," he managed, when he realised that Em was still looking at him expectantly.

"Good." Em slid the drawer shut and settled beside Arthur, hesitantly splaying a hand on his stomach. "I'll keep that in mind though." His tone was light, teasing. He pressed down gently. "As well as the fact that you may need to be restrained in future, as you obviously can’t keep still. Or your hands off yourself." 

Grinning, Arthur said, "I can’t help it if my arse is irresistible."

Em rolled his eyes and leaned over for a slow kiss. "Mmm. You'll hear no argument from me," he whispered as he pulled away. He rubbed his hand in large ovals over Arthur's chest and belly, fingers lingering over nipples and swirling in the hair below his navel.

It was completely unlike getting a rubdown at Knightswood. Oh, the hand was the same and the touch was familiar, but it had a completely different focus. Em was intent on taking care of Arthur, but he was also—if his rapt, unguarded expression was anything to go by—taking something for himself.

On his next downward pass, Em lifted his hand and threaded it behind Arthur's thighs. He cradled his balls briefly before placing his hand flush against Arthur's bottom and just holding it there, the warmth from his palm seeping into Arthur's skin.

Arthur released a breath he didn’t know he'd been holding. He tried not to move, but he couldn’t help himself; that palm was a painful tease, a gentle, vague pressure where he craved something sharp and specific.

"Em, Em, please, I need…" Arthur said, squirming.

Em scooted down and pressed a kiss to Arthur's knee. "I know. Turn over for me, yeah?"

Arthur stilled. "But I want—well, I thought we could do it like this. So I can see you." He regretted the words the instant they'd left his lips. They sounded whiny, needy.

Thankfully Em didn’t seem to notice. He only gave Arthur a soft, indulgent smile and smacked his bum.

"Trust me, Arthur, it'll be easier on your hands and knees. For your first time, anyway. You'll have more control, be able to pull off if you need to. Okay?"

"Oh. Okay." Arthur wasn't sure he actually _wanted_ more control—he'd been looking forward to more of that glorious abdication of responsibility, where, unlike on the pitch, he could let someone else dictate every move and trust it would lead to a good outcome—but he supposed Em knew best.

He tugged the pillow out from under himself and started to roll over.

"Wait, wait." Em snagged his thigh and shimmied back up so he was half-pinning Arthur to the mattress. He brushed Arthur's fringe off his forehead, ran a thumb across his lower lip. "Why don't we start off like this," he said with a shy smile. "Have a proper snog while I get you loose?"

Arthur didn’t trust himself to speak, so he only nodded. Em rolled away for a moment, and then he was back, stroking Arthur's face, savouring his mouth and—after what Arthur thought of as an interminable period of perineal tiki-taka—plunging his slicked-up fingers deep into Arthur's arse.

Arthur made an undignified noise and bucked, clutching at Em's shoulders.

Em slid his fingers back out, so only the tips remained inside, and began working them relentlessly, circling, stretching the tight muscle. "You sure you don’t want me to suck you first?" he said, brushing his lips along Arthur's jaw.

"Wanna come with you inside me." He said it just to be stubborn, to hurry Em along, but as he spoke the words he knew them to be true. Everything they'd done previously—blowjobs, handjobs, all sorts of dry humping—had involved taking turns. He had no illusions about simultaneous orgasms, but he wanted to at least try and make it a mutual project.

"Okay. But you know you might not—I mean, it's going to hurt, Arthur. At first."

"I know. But then it's all rainbows and prostates, yes?"

Arthur felt a puff of air and Em's lips curving into a smile against his cheek. The fingers gave one final pull against the rim of his hole and withdrew.

"That's the general idea," Em said, "but it isn’t always—"

"Oh, for—" Arthur pulled Em into a searing kiss, then pushed him away. "If I'd wanted to shag a copy of _Men Loving Men_ I would have shoved one up my arse!" He flipped over onto his stomach and pushed up onto all fours. "So johnny up and get in me already, would you?"

Em swore. There was a long, awful pause. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. At last he felt Em's weight shift on the bed. A warm hand brushed the back of his thigh, slipped between his legs and gave his cock a squeeze.

"Oh, you're so… uh, yeah, I'm just gonna. Hang on," Em said.

Arthur heard the sounds of foil ripping and lube being pumped. He lowered himself down onto his forearms, resting his head on a pillow, and tried to take deep, relaxing breaths. For all his eagerness—and for all that he trusted Em—this felt strange, presenting himself in such a vulnerable position to another person.

"Arthur?"

"What?" Arthur snapped. The mattress shifted again and he felt Em's hands settle, warm and weighty, on his lower back. 

Arthur felt a flood of relief and gratitude so strong he was surprised his muscles didn’t give out. He exhaled, pushed back up and looked over his shoulder. "What is it, Emmett?" he said gently.

"Hello."

The way Em said it, it might as well have been, "Now I'm going to fuck you six ways to Sunday," or "You’re the best thing I've seen since forever, too." As it was, Arthur had a soppy grin plastered across his face and was halfway to laughing when Em nudged his cockhead up against Arthur's hole.

* * *

In retrospect, Arthur was glad they hadn't started out face to face. Because it _had_ hurt. It had stung something awful at first—because Em was _long_ and not too shabby in the girth department, and it seemed to take him for fucking ever to get all the way in—and Arthur wouldn't have wanted him to see the way he gritted his teeth and screwed up his face and forced himself to just _breathe, goddammit,_ so he wouldn’t jerk away like a skittish colt.

But then, once Em had filled him completely and the sting had begun to fade, he'd been glad for a different reason. Having Em's cock up his arse was, well, disorienting. He'd been anticipating the act for so long, fucking himself with fingers and plugs—and, once, the red dildo—but none of it had prepared him for how exposed, how full, how _taken over_ he had felt when it was with another person.

For a moment Arthur's entire world had narrowed down to that point of contact. He'd teared up—from nerves, or maybe relief at finally doing this—and if he'd been looking into Em's eyes at the time, he might well have said something stupid. 

It had been bad enough that Em had seemed to sense Arthur's overwhelming emotion, whispering endearments, running strong hands down his sides and up his thighs, reaching down to coax his wilting dick back to full arousal. Blinking away the tears, Arthur had begged him to, "Move, Emrys, goddammit!"

For a while that had been enough—those slow, long thrusts, the freedom to rock back onto them, to angle his bottom so his prostate was being rubbed rather than jabbed at—but it had been hard to find a rhythm. Arthur's arms had started to ache, and still he'd wanted _more._ He'd wanted Em—whose breathing had been strained, but still so fucking controlled—to bloody well let go.

In the end, sheer frustration had won out. Determined to make a go of it, he'd started grunting and thrusting back erratically. Em had stilled him, pulled out, and told him that if things weren't working he needed to calm down and try to tell Em what he wanted. With people words.

Somehow, despite verbal inadequacy, awkward grappling and a couple of false starts, they'd wound up with Arthur resting on his left side, right knee tucked up on a pillow. And like that, with all of Em covering him, with his hips pinned and Em's cock grinding relentlessly into his arse; with skin everywhere and breath hot and wet and ragged on the back of his neck, Arthur had found what he'd been looking for.

When Em had panted that he'd never last if Arthur kept making _those noises,_ Arthur had pulled Em's left hand around and gagged himself on his fingers. He didn’t know if that had actually helped Em's stamina any, but it had certainly made Arthur happy, having something to suck on while he was filled down below.

He'd started to clench, feeling his own orgasm building, so when Em had gripped his cock with his right hand and tugged, it hadn’t mattered that some of his pubes got yanked, or that there'd been too much friction. He'd barely had time to slide Em's fingers out of his mouth before he was shouting, coming, squeezing Em's hand so hard he was afraid he'd break something.

Em hadn't let Arthur catch his breath, only increased his pace, gripping his thigh and humping up and into him. Just as Arthur was sure his prostate couldn’t take any more, was going to burn out from overstimulation, Em had come with a shiver of hips and a stuttered, "Ah-ah-ah."

* * *

Arthur woke to the sensation of something warm and wet between his legs. And a deep, visceral ache. He shifted slightly.

"Em?"

"Ssh, just mopping up. You'll thank me in the morning. Go back to sleep."

Arthur winced, suddenly remembering begging Em not to pull out after he'd come.

"Sorry, condom," he'd said, but when he'd returned from the bathroom, he'd curled back up behind Arthur. With freshly-lubed fingers, he'd soothed the aching emptiness, all the while pressing kisses to Arthur's shoulders and the back of his neck.

Arthur must have drifted off.

"Uh, sorry about that."

"No need to apologise. I think I passed out there for a bit myself. Came to with my fingers _in your arse,_ which, while novel, was a bit disorienting."

Arthur chuckled sleepily, inordinately pleased that Em had done something with him that he hadn’t with anyone else. He rolled over onto his back, letting Em swipe the wet flannel over his belly. "I am Arthur, the amazing homo alarm clock."

Em laughed and swatted Arthur's cock with the flannel. "Ridiculous bottom monster, I have created." He yawned. "Jaysus, you're so earnest all the time; I should have known a good shag was all it would take to make you loopy."

Arthur made a grab for the flannel. "Don't you mean 'fruit loopy'?"

"Ooh, look who's been swotting for his gay-levels."

"After taking that," Arthur said, looking down at Em's flaccid cock, bobbing between his legs as he shuffled to avoid Arthur's hands, "I'd say I'm well into my postgraduate education, wouldn’t you?"

Em dropped the flannel onto Arthur's stomach. "Oh, get on with you then, flatterer. Clean yourself up and get back here so we can have a proper snuggle."

With a groan, Arthur hauled himself up and off the bed, clenching his hole to see if it felt different. It felt loose—weak and a little sloppy—but nothing too terrible. "I do not need a proper snuggle," he announced as he walked towards the bathroom.

"But you want one," Em called after him. "You are a snuggle slut, I can tell. Hey, now there's something we could work into a proper terrace chant. Much better than 'dirty poof.' "

"Not funny, Emrys," Arthur hollered. His throat felt raw, and he realised it was from moaning and grunting and sucking and shouting _during sex_ and—

_Yes, hello, Arthur,_ he thought, grinning at himself in the mirror.

As soon as he got back in the bedroom he was going to rugby tackle Em. He was going to pin him and tickle him and force him to admit that _he_ was the squiddy one who couldn’t keep his hands off Arthur in the night.

And then, after they'd rounded up the bedding and turned off the lights, he would hold him close and tell him that what the punters said didn’t matter— _wouldn’t_ matter, if it should come to that—as long as he and Em could have this at the end of the day.


	20. Tactics

As the squad didn’t have to be at Knightswood until two, Arthur's morning-after plan was to have a lie-in of the sweaty, sticky, vocal variety, followed by leisurely showering and eating interspersed with as much workplace-inappropriate touching as he could wangle to sustain him through the coming week.

The lie-in—or, rather, lie-on and lie-under and lie-delightfully-tangled-up-with—had been an unqualified success. The leisurely showering, too, had gone off without a hitch. Then, while waiting for the kettle to boil, Arthur had made the mistake of checking his mobile.

In light of "recent reported events" and in the effort to avoid "further distractions," the squad was being called in early for a meeting.

Annoyed, Arthur swapped the frying pan and a carton of eggs for a tub of protein powder and rang down to the lobby, requesting delivery of all the available dailies.

He hollered the disappointing news to Em through the bathroom door (Arthur had left him behind to actually wash _himself,_ seeing as he'd spent all their joint shower time alternately scrubbing and then doing filthy things to Arthur) and switched on the small kitchen telly. He flicked through the channels, but there was nothing happening in the world at large that seemed likely to have a direct impact on the club. When he tried ringing his father's private mobile, it went directly to voicemail. Frustrated, Arthur rang off without leaving a message and banged about the kitchen, setting Em's tea to steep and blending himself a protein shake.

Arthur's annoyance turned to apprehension when he saw the front page of _The Sun._

There was the whole motley crew on the pavement, "The Tuck Club" glowing in elegant script above their heads. In it, several of the lads were leaning on one another for support, clearly legless, and Lemmie and Geraint were straining, angry silhouettes on either side of Gerry's broad back. Arthur could make out his own head, bent close to Leon's.

Mordred—that little snake—must have hung around outside the club, retrieved a stashed camera or called in the paps. Going by the angle, the shot was taken from the multi-storey car park across the street. 

"Fuck," he said.

Protein shake forgotten, Arthur started turning pages, hastily scanning the images.

Em padded into the kitchen, clad in last night's clothing, and made a beeline for the tea Arthur had prepared. After he'd snagged it, he joined Arthur at the breakfast island, sliding onto the stool opposite. His posture was relaxed, but he clutched the mug in both hands.

"Mordred?" he said quietly, watching Arthur.

"Yes. Vicious wanker."

Inside, there were close-ups: Leon snogging Arthur's forehead; someone's bare feet sticking out a car window; and a squiffy-faced Tristan waving what, even with pixilation, was obviously a giant red dildo. But, thank fuck, there were none of Arthur going back into the club on his own, nor of he and Em leaving together.

The other papers were the same. There were shots of the lads in front of the Tuck Club, shots of the lads piling in and out of cars, shots of the lads in front of The Mill, but none of him and Em. Maybe, by some miracle, Mordred had missed Arthur in the shuffle?

Relieved, Arthur went back and began to skim the articles. The headlines ranged from the mildly provocative "DRAGons?" to the apocryphal "KINKY STAG DO SPAWNS LUSTY BALLER RAMPAGE," but the stories were all the same padded, titillating fluff that lingered just this side of libel.

"Well?" Em said, once Arthur had closed the last paper.

Arthur drained his protein shake with a grimace. He met Em's eyes and did his best to put on a reassuring smile.

"I predict minor scandal, major telling off, and some fines, but no real harm done."

"Did they at least get my good side?" Em said wryly.

"No."

"What?"

"I mean, no, that's the thing; there aren’t any of you and I. They're all from when the party was breaking up, or from outside The Mill."

Em's eyes opened wider. "Really?"

Arthur shrugged. "Mordred and the paps must have decided to follow the action, take more scintillating snaps of Gwaine and Kay in a sea of wagabees." Voiced aloud, it didn’t sound particularly convincing.

"Huh, I would have thought… Well, anyway, that's lucky."

"That's me," Arthur said, slipping off the stool. He came to stand behind Em, resting his hands on his shoulders and burying his face in his shower-damp hair. "Mmm. Lucky, lucky me."

Em bowed his head. He grabbed Arthur's hands, pulling them forward until Arthur's arms were trapped in an "X" over his collarbones.

Arthur could feel Em's heartbeat thundering beneath his right hand. He squeezed him tightly and, nuzzling deeper into the dark, damp nest, pressed a kiss onto the crown of his head. Em's hair now smelled of Arthur's shampoo.

In the back of his mind, however, he worried. What if it wasn't luck, but a deliberate omission? What if Mordred hadn't left?

He tried to remember how he and Em had interacted as they'd said their goodbyes to Gerry. Was there anything in their gestures, their looks, that might have given them away?

If images of them _did_ exist, there was always a chance they'd been deemed not newsworthy—Arthur hadn’t been visibly drunk or flagging down a taxi with a giant rubber cock—but his brain ran to more sinister possibilities. Maybe Mordred was saving them, plotting exposure. Maybe he was shopping them round to the highest bidder. 

Arthur took a few more reassuring snuffles of Em's hair and reluctantly pulled away.

"However," he said, "I think the sooner Hector knows, the better. We're supposed to meet in London next weekend, but I'm going to ring him and see if we can't move things up. Let him drag his arse north for a change."

"Yeah?" Em swivelled round on his stool. His expression—flickering from guarded to hopeful and back again—mirrored Arthur's own feelings. "And he'll clear his schedule and come all this way without knowing why?"

"Kay and I have always thought of him as a sort of mad uncle." Arthur shrugged. "But, at the end of the day, I do make him a fuckton of cash. It's in his best interest to keep me happy."

"Happy, or marketable?"

"Well, both." Without thinking Arthur slid his hands onto Em's knees. He paused when he saw what he was doing; he started to pull his hands away, then thought, _Wait. This is the whole fucking point, isn’t it? I can do this here._ Just because the morning wasn't going exactly to plan, and just because they were discussing business, didn’t mean Arthur had to deny himself the pleasure of casual touch. Or not so casual touch.

Smiling, Arthur spread his fingers and slid his hands higher.

"Look, I don’t expect he's going to be over the moon about my being gay, but it's not like I've been charging rent boys to my bank card, making raunchy sex tapes, or seducing other people's wives." He pried Em's thighs apart and stepped between them, leaning forward to catch another whiff of his hair. "In fact, I bet I haven’t done half the kinky shite some players get up to every weekend."

Em caught Arthur's wrists and smoothed his thumbs over the pulse points, his eyes gone half-lidded and sly. "Oh, we'll get there, Grompet. I promise."

Arthur swallowed, thoughts temporarily derailed. He had an overwhelming urge to sink down, claw off Em's trousers and find out how his personal grooming products smelled on the rest of Em's hair.

Then Em did his goofy eyebrow waggle, and Arthur laughed.

"Um, what was I saying again?"

"Something about your agent and rent boys, I think."

"Don't be so cheeky." Arthur tapped a forefinger to the prominent bones on Em's face, earning the beginnings of a blush and an exaggerated eye roll.

"Seriously though." Arthur gripped Em's shoulders and gave him a light shake. "Hector's primary concern is my performance on the pitch. If something is upsetting me—say, some gobshite journo who might have it in for me and my boyfriend—he'll want to take care of it."

Em's eyebrows rose again, this time in genuine surprise. "You're going to tell him about me?"

"Well, yes. Of course. The more he knows, the more protection he can give us." Em's startled expression remained, so he added, "I mean, I won’t use your name if you'd rather I didn't, but I think it's important he know that I'm seeing someone."

Attempting his own seductive smile, Arthur hooked a finger into Em's collar and pulled it away from his skin, making as if to peer down the front of his shirt. "Quite a lot of someone, actually, if I have anything to say about it."

Cheeks now undeniably flushed, Em batted his hand away. "Hey. No, it's okay. You can tell him. I just—well, I thought the, 'No, Mister Fifteen Per Cent, I don't wish to endorse bacon-and-jasmine-scented energy water and oh by the way I'm gay,' would be enough to fill a meeting."

"Actually, I think bacon-and-jasmine-scented water could be good," Arthur said. "Especially without the jasmine. I could get behind that."

He cupped Em's face and leaned in. "But I hope all the sneaking about hasn't given you the wrong idea. Discretion is one thing, but I don’t intend to hide you under a rock forever."

Em blinked, lips quirking into a half-smile. "Glad to hear it," he whispered. "Under a rock forever sounds deadly dull. Not to mention painful."

There was a long moment when they stayed like that, cross-eyed from staring at one another too close up. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Now then," he said, straightening and glancing over at the microwave clock. "We need to leave in about fifteen, and I don’t know when we'll next have a chance for a proper snog. So, if you've finished your tea?"

Em held up an admonitory finger. He managed to keep a serious face for all of the five seconds it took him to reach back and down the remaining contents of his mug. Then his lips parted back into that inviting half-smile as he stood and pulled Arthur towards him.

"Oh, I'll give you proper, young man," Em murmured. "Or not. I’d quite like to stick my tongue in your umbilicus, come to think of it."

* * *

Em had the day off, so Arthur dropped him at the station on his way to Knightswood. The press was out in full force, but Cador and his security team were out manning the barriers and Arthur was able to roll through without stopping. He kept his eyes straight ahead; he didn't trust himself not to do something rash if he saw Mordred in the throng.

They'd been instructed to meet in the tactics lounge, which everyone except Arthur's father (and PR staff) referred to as the "war room" after the built-in sliding whiteboards—typically covered with Coach's infamous diagrams—that dominated the walls. There were old freestanding chalkboards as well, because Coach rightly claimed that no dry erase marker in the world could ever match screeching chalk and flying dust for emphasis.

Today, however, the whiteboards were hidden behind their wood panels. The projection screen was retracted up into its housing, and everything on wheels had been pushed to the perimeter of the room. The tablet arm chairs, normally scattered about in untidy rows, had been rearranged into a large circle.

Arthur took one look and grimaced; it was the perfect set up for a team bollocking.

The other lads had evidently come to the same conclusion. Most of them were sprawled or slumped over in their chairs, looking various shades of rough. Several of them had their eyes closed. Tristan had a beanie hat pulled down over the top half of his face and was nursing a bottle of Lucozade Sport.

"Morning, Princess!" Gwaine called, flashing Arthur a grin. He alone seemed perfectly at ease, sprawling in his chair and looking irritatingly well-kempt for someone still wearing last night's clothes.

Arthur shot him two fingers, but grinned back. He looked pointedly at Gwaine's outfit as he slid into the seat between him and Elyan.

"She have a name, Orkney?"

"It began with an R, I think."

Elyan snorted. "It's whatever you call your right hand, mate." To Arthur he said, "He was off his face after The Mill. I let him crash back at mine."

"Yeah, but," Gwaine said, frowning. "She came with, didn’t she? The one from the club? With the friendly tongue and the silky—aw, fucking shite—that was Lola, wasn't it?" He pulled a sour face as the room erupted in chuckles (and a low moan from Tristan, who begged them all to stop kicking his head). Lola was Elyan's Irish Setter.

Arthur laughed along with the rest. He leaned in, winked and said, "Guess the paps broke the wrong scandal, eh, Orkney?"

Gwaine gave him a sharp look. Arthur didn’t know what he thought he saw, but suddenly a sly grin spread across his face. "I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?"

Arthur stiffened. "Don't know what you mean, mate."

"Hmm. If you say so." Gwaine returned the wink and added a raised eyebrow. "You get off all right then, after we left?" he said.

Arthur knew his cheeks were turning an incriminating shade of red, but he forced himself to look Gwaine in the eyes and give him a photo-op smile.

"Oh yes," he said. "I got off just fine."

"Multiple times too, by the look of you," Gwaine murmured. "Lucky sod."

Arthur sputtered, but was saved having to respond by the arrival of Leon, grim-faced and sporting a spectacular example of bedhead. He looked around the room. "Anyone seen—"

But just then Lemmie and Geraint slipped into the room behind him, offering apologies. Arthur noted that Lemmie had a black eye, whilst Geraint had a split lip. Smiling, they slid into adjacent empty chairs, easy as brothers.

"Right then," Leon said, walking into the centre of the circle. "I've just come from Coach's office. He says that if it were up to him, we'd all be running perimeters this afternoon."

There was a chorus of groans. Coach's punitive running practices were legendary. When he was in a real strop, he wouldn’t even let the squad get the balls out, just made them run round the edges of the various practice pitches.

Arthur and Elyan exchanged worried looks. Arthur didn't fancy running himself ragged the day before a match, and he imagined Elyan, who had just been cleared to resume full training, did much either.

"But," Leon went on, "Elena told him that would be a disaster, provided he wants all three points tomorrow."

"Oh, thank fuck," Tristan said weakly, while several of the others cheered. Gwaine announced that he was going to kiss Elena's feet next he saw her.

"I think she'd prefer a bit higher," Elyan whispered to Arthur, setting them both to snickering. Gwaine narrowed his eyes at them.

Leon cleared his throat noisily. Percy gave a hard look round the circle and, when they'd all quieted down, waved for him to continue.

"Doctor Kilgary then made several, ah, suggestions. He, Coach and the others got into a… well." Leon scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Look, lads, I don’t like it, but here's the deal: One of you has to run, and the rest of us train as we see fit. Long as we win tomorrow, that'll be the end of it. If we draw, we pay the fines; if we lose, fines _plus_ perimeters—all of us—at a time of Coach's choosing."

Arthur looked round at his teammates. There were plenty of dubious expressions and muttering, but no one spoke up.

Then Percy nodded and said gruffly, "Alright. Which one?"

"Which one what, Perce?"

"You said one of us has to run. Which one?"

"Ah." Leon rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "That's the thing. I offered straight away, as captain, but they said no. Said it has to be one of you lot, and that it has to be a squad decision. If we can't decide in fifteen, then we all run anyway, regardless of tomorrow's result."

"Fuck if I'm going to—" Myror began, but Lance cut him off. 

"I'll do it," he said, standing with a resigned look on his face.

"Sit your arse back down, fancypants," Bors thundered. "It's Borderlands tomorrow, and there will be plenty of running to do then. You saw the tapes. We'll need you to go forward, make sure Owain isn’t stranded out on the wing lofting balls to the Barbarians."

Arthur glanced at Owain. He didn't look happy, but he nodded grudgingly. He'd been working on improving his accuracy with long crosses, but they would never be described as pinpoint, and Borderlands had a quick, savvy defence. Rather than risk losing possession, they were counting on Lance to provide linking play between the left wing and the centre. And then hustle his arse back if they lost the ball.

"Nor you, Orkney," Percy said as Gwaine made to push himself up out of his chair. "You'll be doing miles up and down that touchline, mark my word. And Tristan—you'd better have found your bloody land legs by tomorrow; their back line keeps a tight shape."

Tristan made a hand gesture that was probably supposed to be a salute and sucked down the rest of his sports drink.

The trouble, Arthur realised, was that _everyone_ was probably going to be doing a lot of hustling on Sunday. If they were going to win, they needed the whole squad at full strength. A spirited debate broke out, a few of the lads offering to run themselves while others argued for why it should be Kay or one of the subs. However, they couldn’t come to a consensus.

Arthur was conflicted. He hadn't overindulged. He hadn't been caught fighting or exposing himself or snogging random women on the pavement. But then he _had_ been the one to arouse Mordred's curiosity, as well as his ire, so it was partially his fault there had been such a ready and well-placed witness to the squad's shenanigans.

He didn't want to run, but the minutes were passing. Lemmie and Geraint, arguing over which one of them was better-suited to the sacrifice, looked ready to start another punch-up; Gareth, green about the gills, looked as if he were about to do something noble and foolhardy; and Elyan was eyeing his right foot speculatively. Leon, glancing at the clock, looked frustrated.

Arthur slid out of his seat and walked to the centre of the circle.

"I'll do it," he said, clapping Leon on the shoulder. He turned and repeated himself, louder, meeting the lads' eyes as conversations died down.

Myror looked surprised. Lance and Elyan frowned. Kay stared at Arthur as if he were mad.

"Look," Arthur said, "we're all going to see a lot of the pitch tomorrow, but if you lot do your jobs, I won't be running as much as some."

"I don’t think so, Princess," Gwaine said hotly. "You'll still need to hustle if you want to keep your channels clear. I don’t do door-to-fucking-door delivery. Hell, Perce, if he can volunteer, then so can I, and I've way more stamina than—"

And the debate broke out all over again.

"Fuck," Leon said, dropping his forehead into his hands. "Wart, remind me to elope if Morgana ever decides to make an honest man out of me. I'm too old for this shit."

"We should make her, Viv and Issie run," Arthur muttered. "It's got to be at least partly their fault."

Leon looked up, a small smile breaking out. "Ten times round the pitch at the Citadel. In those terrifying shoes and tops they claim are dresses."

"We could sell tickets, for charity."

"They'd be storming the gates." Leon said. "Shit, time's almost up. I don't think Doctor Kilgary –

"Wait!" Arthur cut in. "Doctor Kilgary. This was his idea right?"

"Yes, in part, but—" Leon said, but Arthur just grinned at him maniacally and shouted for everyone to shut the fuck up.

When he had everyone's attention, he said, "I've an idea. If it works, no one has to ruin their legs. If not, well, in about four minutes we'll all be doomed to run anyway. So, do you trust me?"

There was a chorus of yeses and accompanying nods. Some were more enthusiastic than others, but, to a man, the whole squad responded without hesitation. Arthur shivered, suddenly aware of the weight of so many eyes. He wondered if this was how Coach and Leon felt week in, week out.

Arthur turned to Leon. He still looked puzzled, but he merely said, "What's the plan, mate?" and ducked his head when Arthur leaned to whisper in his ear.

The squad watched as Leon's eyes grew wide. He barked out a laugh. "You're off your nut, Pendragon," he said as he opened the door. "But I like it."

* * *

"Well," Coach said, glaring round the room, "Belcourt here informs me that you've made your decision, but he wouldn’t tell me which one of you miserable sods is to be the whipping boy."

Arthur stepped forward.

Coach's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Pendragon, you?"

Arthur shook his head. "All of us, Coach. We're a team. We're going to win as one tomorrow, so we run as one today." Ignoring the explosion of angry sounds from the squad, he plunged on. "We'll give you ten laps around the Citadel pitch. Then we train as we please, alright?"

Coach 's lip twitched. "Make it the south practice field and you've got a deal."

"No, it has to be the Citadel," Arthur said firmly. "To remind us of what we represent, who we're playing for."

"Are you daft, son? The groundsmen would have your hides. Even _I'm_ not allowed on that pitch outside match days."

"I don’t think that will be a problem," Dr. Kilgary called out. The reek of pipe tobacco preceded him into the middle of the room where, shooing Arthur and Leon aside, he set down the tray he was carrying.

"The fuck is that, a puppy patch?" Bors whispered.

"For a Chihuahua, maybe," Elyan quipped.

"That," Arthur said, gesturing towards the rectangle of sod, "is the Citadel pitch. The original one, or what's left of it. Right, Doc?"

"Indeed." A smile tugged at the corners of Dr. Kilgary's mouth, but he nodded gravely at Arthur.

"And that is what we're going to run around. Ten times. Together."

Several mouths hung open, but there was absolute silence. Arthur held his breath. Everyone's eyes were on Coach, whose craggy face appeared to have liquefied and was undergoing a rapid series of changes—eyebrows twitching, mouth working, cheeks and jowls quivering.

Dr. Kilgary peered at Coach over the tops of his spectacles. "Well, Gaius?" he said quietly. "What say you?"

"Who's Gaius?" Lemmie said, and there were several smothered laughs.

"Coach," Percy whispered out the side of his mouth.

"Coach? But he's… I mean, he's just, well, Coach," Lemmie muttered, blushing furiously. With the swelling and bruising around his eye, he looked like a panto makeup job gone horribly awry. "Didn't know he had another name, did I?"

"Nor I," Geraint whispered, earning a grateful look from his erstwhile sparring partner.

There was a bit more nudging and snickering, but the squad's attention soon returned to Coach, whose face had stilled. His mouth opened wide, emitting a horrible breathy, wheezing sound.

Concerned, Arthur darted forward, but Coach waved him back. The wheezing tumbled over into something richer and deeper, and Arthur realised that Coach was _laughing._

"Oh, that's… clever boots… never in all my," he managed between hacking gales of laughter. He threw up his hands then, once he'd composed himself, clasped them behind his back.

"All right," he said at last, smiling indulgently at Arthur. "Well played. I accept. But—" His smile faded and his faced pinched back into a forbidding expression. "I'm holding you to that win, and the other conditions still apply."

"Yes, Coach," Arthur said, and was echoed by the others.

Coach nodded and, smiling once more, turned to go. He paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. "Best take care, Belcourt," he said, eyes sparkling, "young Pendragon seems set on giving you a run for your armband."

Arthur, embarrassed, turned to Leon to protest, but he found the captain grinning easily. "On this occasion, Coach, I’d say he's well earned it."

Dr. Kilgary remained to supervise their laps (or, more likely, to make sure no harm came to his precious patch of grass). They ran them laughing, shoving playfully at one another and letting out a great shout every time the doctor counted off another circuit. Arthur, flushed with pride, threw himself wholeheartedly into the clowning.


	21. The Kingmaker

Sunday ended up being one of those occasions—rare even at the top level—where every man on the squad was sharp, stuck-in, and giving 110%. Camelot were no Barcelona, but when they were all focused and working tirelessly for one another, they could manage a rougher version of that patient, possession-oriented game that frustrated talented forwards and could eventually unlock the most disciplined of defences.

When the goal came, deep in the second half, it might have been Arthur's boot that tapped the ball into the back of the net, but it had been a true team effort. Kay, who'd started the attack with a quick roll-out to Gareth, ran the length of the pitch to join the celebratory manpile.

At the bottom Arthur, getting kissed and noogied and squished within an inch of his life, laughed uncontrollably and yelled, "Fucking yes!"

He didn’t care how much time was left; he _knew_ they were going to win now, just like he'd promised Coach. There would be no fines and no gut-churning perimeter runs the morning after the club Christmas party (or some other suitably punishing time).

As soon as Arthur freed his head, he instinctively looked towards a certain spot on the touchline. For a moment he almost forgot to breathe. He told himself it was because Gwaine was crushing him, and nothing to do with the fact that Em was jumping up and down, fist in the air, smiling that smile—that all-out, diamond-bright faceful of joy that made even a club tracksuit look sexy.

Thousands could see it, but Arthur was sure it was meant especially for him. "Fucking _yes,"_ he repeated, grinning helplessly in return.

Camelot withstood the final Borderlands assault, a good five minutes of solid pressure that culminated in a deflected shot and a corner kick.

Kay sprang off his line, boldly plucking the ball from the air before it could connect with an onrushing Barbarian head. He held onto it as long as he could without drawing the ref's ire. Then he set it down and side-footed it to Bors, screaming at the squad to hold fast, to slow it down, to take the ball out wide, into the corners—up their own arses, if need be—only he didn’t want to see it anywhere near his goal again.

The squad pulled it together and played out the final minutes in fine style. When the whistle blew, a mighty roar went up from the home crowd. Any doubts they might have had about the players' commitment to the club, given recent headlines, were forgotten. They were clearly delighted with the way their team had performed; Arthur could hear strains of "Dragon 'Til I Die" and "Sweet Camelot" coming from the Kop.

The lively horde of travelling Borderlands fans, kitted out in wigs, kilts, and blue body paint, stood and began singing their traditional taunt, "Things'll Be Different When You Come Oop North," while applauding their team's effort.

All the subs ran onto the field and joined in the group hug, along with the physios and coaching staff. Coach kept a dignified distance from the melee, but he was smiling like the cat that had got the canary, and whenever one of the lads caught his eye he raised his hands and applauded. Arthur, caught in a rather wonderful Em and Elena side-hug sandwich while Leon mussed his hair from behind, thought that that was one of the glorious, wacky things he loved about football—that sometimes a 1-0 league win could feel like a 5-0 cup final.

* * *

Wary of hitting their usual hot spots after Friday's debacle, Leon and Percy pressured Myror into inviting them all round to his mansion on the outskirts of Camelot. Once again, Arthur found himself making excuses. Not because he was off to meet Em, though, but because Hector had texted him earlier with a time, hotel name and suite number.

The dressing room rang with protests when he announced he had a meeting.

"A meeting?" Myror laughed. "As if. Shag in your own time, mate. Your team needs you."

"Wart, we're going to get a keg and roast meat over his fire pit," Leon enthused.

"Out in the open air, as man was intended," Percy said, nodding. "Can't miss that."

"Yes, whatever happened to the togetherness, Wart?" Kay said, emerging from the wetroom. He was starkers save for a towel slung round his neck. He placed one foot up on a bench, clapped a fist to his chest, and proclaimed, "My friends, we won as a team. Now we won’t run as a team. But god forbid we have fun as a team. That'll never do. I'd rather play my PS2."

There were loud groans and catcalls. Kay bowed, then ducked and twisted as people started snapping towels at him. Arthur joined in, getting in a good smack on the back of Kay's head.

"Christ, Kay, you've made me sound like Dumbledore. And I do not speak in verse."

"Nope. You're way too terse," Kay replied, grinning.

"Stop that," Arthur said, pointing a finger. Kay opened his mouth, but Arthur rushed on. "I'm meeting Hector, if you must know. He's only in town for the night."

Kay's smile faded. Gwaine, who'd been noticeably silent during all the teasing, looked up from pulling on his motorcycle boots, clearly surprised. He'd obviously thought Arthur had been begging off to spend the evening with Em.

"Hector's in Camelot?" Kay said. "Spoke to him last week. He didn't mention anything about coming up."

"It was a last minute thing," Arthur muttered, straddling the bench beside Kay. Most of the squad had turned their backs, but he'd wager there were still plenty of curious ears pricked in their direction. It had been a mistake to bring this up in the dressing room. "Look, it's not—it's nothing contract related, alright? I'm not going anywhere."

Kay gave him an assessing look. "You sure about that, Wart? You're looking pretty damn shiny of late, and transfer season is only a few weeks off. Even I can do that math."

"What? They'd never sell the Wart," Gareth exclaimed, whirling round. He reddened when he saw the veteran players all shaking their heads and looking pointedly away. "I mean, ah—"

"Gareth, Owain and Geraint, keg duty!" Leon barked. "Meet me in the family lounge in five."

Arthur grabbed the ends of the towel slung around Kay's neck and pulled until their foreheads were touching. "Really, Kay. Not the place for this. When you're decent come find me at the bar."

Kay looked sheepish for all of a second, before smirking and squealing, "Why, _Arthur,_ darling, I thought you'd never ask!" He sounded alarmingly like Viv, and the dressing room erupted into guffaws. Arthur shoved the towel-ends back in Kay's face, rose, and crossed towards the door.

"Enjoy your feast, men," he called out, tossing his own towel in the laundry cart. "I'll stop by later, if I can."

"I'm not saving you any ale, Princess," Gwaine shouted. "Nor any sausage, so best bring your—"

Arthur fled.

* * *

Waiting for Kay in the club bar, adrenaline waning, Arthur realised that he regretted not being able to join the lads for an evening of mindless fun. After all that had happened in the past few days, it would be nice to just kick back and soak up the praise and teasing along with the beer and grease. It would be easy, so easy. Much easier than facing Hector.

Arthur shifted in his chair. He checked his mobile, half-hoping there would be a message from Hector saying he'd got stuck in traffic or, better yet, been recalled to London. As he scrolled through his messages, a new text popped up, from Em.

_Heading back 2 kwood. Ring me later ok? No matter what_

Before he could reply, another appeared.

_Ps u looked horreed out there 2day. Truly rank. Nearly lost my lunch_

Arthur snorted. Fuck easy. Smiling, he typed, _Yeah well ur so ugly I wanted to kick yur teeth in after the goal_

_Not as much as I wanted 2 put a boot up your arse_

Arthur was still grinning stupidly down at his phone when Kay flopped into the seat across from him.

"Wouldn’t I like to know who that's from," he said, nodding towards Arthur's mobile. "I'm guessing not Hector."

"No," Arthur said, slipping the phone back into his pocket, "not Hector. Listen, Kay—"

"I'm sorry about just now," Kay interrupted, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "I didn't mean to start rumours. You took me by surprise, is all—Hector coming all this way for secret talks with our Wart."

"Not secret so much as… well, personal," Arthur said, studying Kay's face. "Look, Kay, I asked for this meeting. Yesterday."

Kay reached out, large hands enveloping Arthur's knees. "Shit, what's wrong? Is it cancer? Fuck, Wart, tell me it's not ball cancer—they say Lance Armstrong does fine with just the one, but he's no longer shagging that fit bird with the guitar, now is he, so you can’t tell me—or is some wagabee threatening to go to the rags, calling you her baby daddy? Because I'll—"

"Kay, no. For fuck's sake, no," Arthur said, laughing. He shoved Kay's hands off his legs. "Your concern for my balls is touching, but they are perfectly fine. And I _swear_ I am nobody's 'baby daddy.' "

Kay slumped back in his chair. "Well, that's a relief." 

"Nor am I likely to be," Arthur added quietly. "That's what I need to speak to Hector about."

"Huh?"

Arthur waited while Kay worked through what had been said.

Kay's eyes widened. "Your wee seamen are dead in the water? But why would Hector care about that? Are you _sure_ it's not ball cancer?"

Arthur groaned.

"What? Wart, mate, throw me a bone here!"

"Remember our conversation in Wessex, when I was just coming back from suspension?"

Kay stared. Then he clapped his hands over his mouth and started bouncing up and down in his chair, giddy-faced and chortling through his nose.

Alarmed, Arthur looked round the bar to see if anyone was watching.

"Oh my fucking god," Kay stage-whispered once he'd got a hold of himself. "You're shagging, aren't you? You and magic-fingers—oh, I motherfucking called it, didn't I, Wart? The spermy eyes never lie."

"Who said anything about shagging anybody?" Arthur whispered furiously. "I was just trying to tell you that I'm… well, you know."

"Queer as folk?" Kay grinned. "Bent as a butcher's hook?" He leaned forward again. "I _know,_ mate. Have done for years, or at least guessed as much. But I'm glad you've finally told me yourself, and decided to let downstairs Wart out to play."

Dumbfounded, Arthur sat and stared, waiting for the punchline. But Kay appeared to be serious. He was looking back at Arthur with an open, friendly face. Bemused, certainly, but not disbelieving. Arthur opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of what to say.

"Hey, you have time for a pint?" Kay said, standing. "You look as if you could use one. On me."

"Um." Arthur slipped his phone out with shaking hands and checked the time. "Yeah, no, I'd best be off, but—shit, Kay, seriously? You knew?"

" 'Fraid so, bro." Kay sighed. "For one thing, you always wanked hardest after rough training sessions with Coach Palomides. Especially when he'd been all up in your face, or holding your knees while you did extra crunches. Took me a while to sort _that_ one out, kinky boots, but I got there eventually."

Embarrassed, Arthur looked away.

"Wart, relax. I told you; I don’t judge. Unless you're sticking it places it isn't welcome, I'm pretty laissez-faire in matters of the cock."

Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find Kay giving him the sort of shit-eating grin that usually meant he’d left something disgusting in Arthur’s locker.

"And the heart," Kay added with a wink.

"Uh, cheers, mate," Arthur muttered, dropping his gaze back to his mobile. "I'll—well, have fun with the lads. I'll give Hector your best, yes?"

"You do that." Kay patted Arthur's shoulder, then started towards the door.

Arthur stood and gathered his belongings. He'd just started doing up the buttons on his peacoat when Kay turned and marched back over.

"Fuck Myror's fire pit. You want me to come with? I think I should. For moral support. Or, rather, _immoral_ support, you budding deviant." He nudged Arthur in the ribs.

"Oh please, Kay, you just want to see what colour his face turns," Arthur scoffed, but he didn’t protest when Kay slung an arm round his shoulders and began steering them towards the door.

* * *

Hector was chattering away on his Bluetooth as he welcomed Arthur and Kay into his suite at the Royal Dragon Arms. If he was surprised to see Kay, he didn’t show it. He waved them into a small sitting room, pointing at bottles of still and sparkling water and gesturing for them to help themselves. 

He, of course, was sipping from the battered plaid thermos that accompanied him everywhere. Tonight, going by the green scum on his moustache, Arthur guessed that it contained some type of vegetable smoothie. Rumour was, back in the day that thermos had contained a rather special 90-proof "tea," but Arthur had only ever known this mostly sober, health-conscious version of the famous Kingmaker.

They seated themselves while Hector finished his call. Kay, evidently taking his support role literally, squeezed in next to Arthur on the loveseat.

"Still a fashion icon, our Hector," he said, nodding towards their agent. "Nice to know someone's keeping paisley and polyester flares alive."

"I think he does it on purpose," Arthur whispered, fighting a smile.

"Dressing like that? He must do. In this day and age, that brand of ghastly takes _effort,_ mate."

"No, I mean, the whole image—the clothes, the weird health shakes, that shag cut, for fuck's sake. People underestimate him. Gives him an advantage." 

"Huh. Whatever happened to making a good first impression?"

"Mate, he's the motherfucking Kingmaker," Arthur said. "He doesn't have to worry about first impressions." 

More than once, at his father’s parties, Arthur had watched dismissive glances and polite smiles turn to blatant arse-kissing when people realised that this dodgily-dressed character sipping fruit juice could name you a best XI for any successful club in the nation, going back decades, off the top of his head, _and_ that he’d had a hand in many of those players’ careers. He’d well earned his epithet, and though he’d given up hardcore boozing, he hadn’t lost his knack for spotting and nurturing young talent.

Kay grinned. "That's us, Wart. Kings. Signed when we were nothing but scruffy little imps full of piss and running, and look at us now—top flight football and lords of all we survey."

He settled into the loveseat, spreading thighs and arms and nearly smacking Arthur in the face. "Ah, my kingdom is vast, sirs. It doth encompass two sofas, three tables, an assortment of light fixtures, and a mini-bar."

"You forgot the potted tree, sire. And the—"

"Hello, boys." Hector lowered himself onto the other sofa, dabbing at his moustache with a paisley pocket square.

Arthur and Kay hastily composed themselves, greeting their agent and sitting up straight.

"Kay, unexpected, but not unwelcome," Hector said, nodding. "Arthur, you I've been worrying about, ever since you rang."

"I didn’t intend you to worry, but I wanted to be face-to-face—"

"Yes, yes," Hector broke in. "You said all that over the phone. So stop me worrying, son; tell me what's going on."

Arthur glanced at Kay, who gave him an encouraging Cheshire grin. He had a sudden flashback of Morgana, draped in a red tablecloth and crowned with a metal pasta strainer, towering over him and his wooden Beefeaters screeching, "Off with their heads!"

Arthur smiled at the memory. She had always been the fierce, bold one; he hoped a little of it had rubbed off.

"So, Hec," he said, "I'm sure you saw the rags?"

Hector settled more fully into the sofa, waving a hand dismissively. "That what's bothering you, son, yesterday's news? Because it is, quite literally. I won’t lie, I had a sponsor or two skirling away at me Saturday morning, but nowhere near as many as when you pulled that stunt in October." He gave Arthur a hard look, then smiled—a quick, fleeting thing that made his moustache appear as if it were about to take flight. "Anyway, after today, not a bleeding thing to say anymore, have they?" He cupped a hand to his ear.

"No." Nervous, Arthur drummed his fingers on his thighs. "But that's not really—see, it's more that the whole thing, with the press I mean, made me realise how easily—well, let’s say I have a sort of secret, yeah?"

"Ah." Hector carefully refolded and replaced his pocket square. "Secrets are for keeping, wouldn’t you say?"

"What if I can't?" Arthur blurted. He thought of Em on the touchline, smile blazing away on his handsome face, and added, "What if I don’t want to anymore?"

Hector watched Arthur, stern expression giving way to something far more weary. He sighed. "Then best spit it out before it chokes you," he said quietly.

It wasn’t said with malice, but the words sent a chill down Arthur’s spine. He didn’t know how long he sat there, second-guessing himself, lost in the rhythm of his own breathing. Fortunately Kay snapped him out of it by kicking him in the foot.

"Oi," Kay said. "You want me to—"

"Right, no." Arthur nodded his gratitude. "Cheers, Kay, but I've got this." He leaned forward and looked Hector in the eyes.

"Hector, I'm gay."

Hector blinked. "You're no such thing."

Arthur felt as if he'd been slapped. "Well, yes, actually. I am."

"No, you're not."

"I am." Hector opened his mouth, but Arthur rushed on. "I'm not confused, or taking the piss, I swear. I know I’ve never said anything before, but now I've met someone, Hector, and he's good for me. He's bloody amazing. We—what?"

Hector was shaking his head. "No, son. You don’t understand. Regardless of what's going on in your pants—or between your sheets—as far as the public is concerned, you are one of Camelot's most eligible bachelors."

"What the fuck?" Arthur said, tensing with anger. "That’s all you have to say?"

Kay shifted, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Easy there."

"But he’s—is he telling me he doesn’t care so long as the bloody public think I’m straight?"

"He’s your agent, mate," Kay said, looking nervously between Arthur and Hector. "He’s only saying it’s his job to sell your image. And I’ll bet he’s thinking that since absolutely _no one_ has a fucking clue, it needn’t change anything."

"Exactly," Hector said, looking relieved.

"Of course, _I_ know," Kay continued with a little frown. He caught Arthur’s eye. "Plus Elena and Gwaine—and I'm still narked you told him before me, mate, but now's not the time—and probably Elyan. Oh, and Morgana, and a handful of Em's friends. Am I leaving anyone out? 

"Ooh, I know—the bouncer at that drag club, as well as anyone who noticed you leaving with Em—basically anyone with _eyes_ who sees the two of you together. And let’s not forget that clinging arsecrumb, Mordred, who may or may not be scheming to out you, but is definitely up to bad tricks."

Seeing Hector's face—which, for the first time in memory, had turned _pale_ rather than something in the red-violet band—Arthur began to regret spilling an abridged version of the whole tale to Kay on the drive over.

"Mordred?" Hector said, looking as if he'd caught a whiff of rotting kipper. "Mordred at _The Sun?"_ He fumbled on the end table for his thermos. He unscrewed the cap, took a deep draught, and slammed it back down. 

"Well, son, I stand corrected. Gay, you say?"

"One-hundred per cent flaming poof," Kay said cheerfully. "Minus a few bouts of hormone-fuelled adolescent confusion, or so he tells me."

Arthur glared at Kay, then addressed Hector. 

"Yes. And I’m seeing someone, which is the primary reason for the heads-up. We're being discreet as we can, but I'd be happier if we didn’t have to sneak around. I'm handling the team on my own, in my own time." Kay harrumphed at this. Arthur shot him a guilty look and continued, "But Mordred’s the real concern. As long as I can still play, I don’t care what the press say about me, but it’s Em. I won’t put him through that, being dragged arse-backwards through the tabloids. I know it’ll be hectic for a time no matter what, but I thought—well, I’d rather do it on my own terms. Come out, ask for privacy, all that."

Hector thrust himself up from the sofa with a muttered, "Bloody Mordred. Bloody _gay,_ and at a time like this," and began pacing the floor. He whipped his pocket square out and crumpled it in his fist.

"Turning heads left and right, with Albion at the weekend, and what does he do but—by _god_ do I miss the days where all you had to do was yank them out of the bottom of a pint, dispose of the party powder and hustle the tarts out the back—long as they turned up with two feet on Saturday, everyone was happy!"

"Hec?" Arthur said, but his agent didn’t even glance his way, just kept muttering about brand image and role models and "bloody identity politics."

"Out of all the shirt-lifters in the league, I get the one who decides to ignore the memo," Hector continued, laughing ruefully.

Arthur and Kay looked at one another. Kay shrugged and shook his head.

"What memo?" Arthur said. When there was no immediate reply, he shouted, "What fucking memo, Hector?"

Hector jerked around, staring. Then he heaved a great sigh and mopped his forehead.

"It's not an _actual_ memo, son. It's not written anywhere, but it’s plain as the nose on my face. No one in this sport comes out publicly. It just... isn’t done."

Arthur was standing, with no recollection of having done so. The wild anger was still there, but he swallowed it down and smothered it by clenching his fists and focusing on a spot on the far wall. 

"I understand," he said coolly. "If you no longer feel you can represent me—"

"Are you bloody daft?" Hector cried, throwing down his pocket square and ripping off his Bluetooth. "I’m only telling you how things _are,_ not what I feel or how—oh for fuck’s sake." 

In four strides Hector was in front of Arthur. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, but his eyes were kind. 

"Arthur, the first time I saw you—you were what, twelve or thirteen?"

"Twelve," Arthur replied, unsure where this was headed.

"Yes, yes. You were dribbling round cones. Training had ended, but you were still out there, because old Geoffrey wanted to teach you a lesson. It was meant as a punishment, but it was like you didn’t care. It was just you and the ball and a pitch full of obstacles, and you loved it—fucking _loved_ it. A mad grin and cheeks puffed up with running, that’s what I remember."

Kay snorted. "He makes the same face now."

Hector glanced at Kay, as if he’d forgotten he was there. He stepped back, running a hand through his thick, greying mop of hair.

"You know me, boys, not normally one for picking favourites. But I tell you, Arthur, I knew it then, that you were something special. And nothing I've seen or heard since has changed my mind."

"So, are we good then, or..." Arthur sank down onto the loveseat, drained. Kay reached over and patted his back. "What exactly are you saying, Hec?"

Hector held up his hands. "Look, it’s not that I’ve got a problem with gays—you’re certainly not the first on my books—but that I’d never advise _any_ of my boys to come out. Not in this business, not in good conscience. It’s a bloody difficult path. But that doesn’t mean I won't stand by you, if you’re hell-bent on taking it. All I ask is you have patience." 

"Meaning?" Arthur said.

"Let me do my job, help you with the timing and presentation. No rushing off to march in parades. Yes?”

Arthur nodded warily.

"Good." Hector gave another of his fleeting smiles. "Now, I'm going to fix myself something a little stiffer than a green smoothie—this being a rare occasion and all—and then you can tell me the whole sordid story."

Arthur's temper flared. "It's not sordid! Dammit, if that's how you're going to be about it, you can—"

"Easy, son, easy," Hector cut in, looking wounded. "I meant about Mordred. Christ, maybe you should have a nip as well. Unwind your knickers."

"It's the gay rage," Kay said, earning himself a bug-eyed look from Hector and a firm elbow in the ribs from Arthur. "See. He really needs to unburden himself. Why don’t you two get started, and I'll pop the mini-bar cherry."

* * *

Arthur's head was pounding by the time they left Hector's suite. Not from the drink—he'd only had the one whisky—but from all the bloody _talking._

He was relieved to know he had Hector's support, but his agent had a way of taking the things Arthur thought of as solid, simple facts—his love of the game, his intentions regarding Em, his commitment to Camelot—and complicating them. It reminded Arthur of how different managers could turn the basic strategy for winning a match—put more goals in the back of the net than your opponent—into a wide array of complex tactical scribbles. It was thorough, but not always easy to hear.

He especially hadn’t liked hearing Hector's honest opinion that, for the good of his career, the longer he kept his sexual orientation under wraps, the better.

"I'm not asking you to lie to the press," Hector had said, "but be smart. Don’t give Mordred and his ilk anything more to work with. If you must go out, try to do it in mixed groups. No more drag clubs, _definitely_ no gay clubs, and I'd hold off on the wedding announcements."

The joke had fallen flat, Arthur gritting his teeth and studying the contents of his glass while Kay had looked on uneasily.

Hector had soon changed the topic, but just before they'd left, while Kay had been in the loo, he'd said, "Son, look. You claim you're the happiest you've ever been, in part because of this fella of yours. As you've been in top form, I can’t complain. But if you two go public, then it’s no longer just a relationship, it’s a social issue. And social issues, as important as they are, can become major distractions. We’ll speak more next weekend, but there's a lot of interest in you right now. Let's let them get a good look at Arthur Pendragon the footballer before we muddle the mix, eh?"

Kay took one look at Arthur's face in the lift and suggested a stop in the lobby bar before heading out to Myror's, but Arthur declined. The thought of drinking and roaring round a fire with the lads had lost its appeal, and he didn’t think downing pity pints with Kay first would put the shine back on the evening.

"Sorry, mate. Hector’s done a number on my head. Think I need to go home, just kick back a bit."

"No worries. I'll grab a taxi." Kay zipped up his leather jacket and adjusted his scarf. He studied Arthur. "You sure you should be alone though?"

"Yeah, go on. I'd be crap company."

"That's not what I was asking," Kay said, eyes boring into Arthur's.

"I'll be fine, Kay," Arthur said, ducking his head. "And triple cheers for coming with. Give my love to the lads. Tell them, um..."

"I’m saying Hec wants us to do a mostly-nude underwear shoot together and you required more convincing than I did. Nah? No worries, Wart, I’ll tell them he dragged you off to a juice bar or some shit. ‘Night."

As soon as Kay left, Arthur found the valet parking attendant. He handed in his ticket and went outside. Kay had a point. Edging away from the doorman, Arthur pulled out his phone. 

"Em? It's me."

_"Yeah, uh. I sorta—well, you know there's this handy feature where your name shows up on my screen when you call?"_

A limo pulled up and a large, well-lubricated party of women in smart suits tumbled out, laughing and talking over one another. Arthur stepped behind a pot of ornamental shrubbery.

_"Arthur, what happened? How'd the meeting go? Where are you, anyway?"_

"Not where I want to be," Arthur whispered. He waited until the noisy group had gone into the lobby, the doorman trailing after them. "Em, can I come by yours? I know we didn’t plan it, and I don't—I mean, we don’t have to do anything, but I’d really like to see you."

_"Of course. You’re always welcome here. Only, I should warn you that Will's back, and going by proceedings on the sofa, Freya's latest will be spending the night. So it won’t exactly be private, if that's a concern."_

"I don't care, Em. I really don't. I just want to see your face." Arthur hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

_"Hmm. So you can kick my teeth in?"_ Em said, a teasing note creeping in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, that exactly."


	22. Strike Partner

By the time Arthur reached Em's neighbourhood, the edge had worn off his desperation, and nerves had begun to set in.

He parked in the lone space reserved for Em's flat in the underground car park. Will's car had been banished to the street for the night. Em had said it wasn't a big deal—and he was boss of the thing during his flatmate's frequent travels—but Arthur wondered what   
Will thought, now that he was back.

Most likely, Will thought him a jumped-up twat.

He certainly _felt_ like one as he donned a thick wool beanie hat and flipped up his coat collar. But Hector had a point: It didn’t do to take unnecessary risks, and he was risking enough just by coming here.

Mercifully, the lift was empty. On Em's floor, Arthur saw a few people from a distance—the flats in the old corn exchange were accessed by curving, glass-panelled galleries that afforded a view of the floors below—but he passed no one as he jogged to number 476. Jittery and annoyed with himself, he pounded on the door.

And there was Em, wearing his old scrub pants, a faded T-shirt, and that gorgeous fucking _face_ that cut right through the mess in Arthur's head.

"Why, hello, sailor," he said, opening the door wide. "Fancy a—"

"Yeah." Arthur practically shoved Em in his eagerness to get inside, to kick the door closed behind him and slide his fingers through that thick, soft thatch of hair.

He realised that he'd been lying when he'd said he just wanted to _see_ Em's face.

He pressed a bruising kiss onto Em's lips, then plunged his tongue inside. His mouth tasted of coconut milk and spices; Arthur licked and sucked and gently probed until his head felt muzzy and his blood was racing south.

"Mmm," he murmured as he withdrew, breathing heavily. "Red Thai curry. Not usually top of my charts, but on you, just now? Very nice."

"Oh, Will and I were," Em began. He blinked, touching his fingers to his lips. "Wow. Um, takeaway," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "You hungry? There's peanut noodles left. And some of those little whotsits… with the sauces and the… stuff."

Arthur shook his head—all he wanted was to be alone with Em—but his stomach betrayed him, giving a loud rumble.

"Right," Em said with a smile, eyeing Arthur's midsection. "Coat, please, and then it's into the kitchen with you. Don't mind Will's monosyllables. He's just back from Singapore and is knacked as an old pony."

The lights in the living room were dimmed. Freya was stretched out on the sofa, her head resting in the lap of a statuesque brunette. A black and white film was playing on the telly, but neither of the women appeared to be paying it much attention.

Freya spotted Arthur as he passed and waggled a foot in greeting. "Hiya, Sporty."

The brunette looked over and gave him a charming, gap-toothed smile. " 'Lo," she said. "I'm Helen. Not that it matters, as this gorgeous creature says I'm to say I haven’t seen you." She stroked the shorn half of Freya's head.

"Arthur. Uh, nice to… not have met you, then?"

Helen laughed, a rich, bodily chuckle. "Oh, likewise, I'm sure."

Freya, clearly captivated by Helen's jiggling cleavage, told Arthur and Em to bugger off to the kitchen, where they belonged.

The elusive Will was at the sink, filling a glass from the tap. He wore well-cut—albeit rumpled—suit trousers, but his feet were bare. Clear lines of lean muscle were visible through a snug white T-shirt. When he turned around, Arthur saw that, in addition to being fit, he was handsome, in a boyish, ruddy-cheeked way.

He knew by now that Will was more than a flatmate, that he'd been more or less a fixture in Em's life since birth. He also knew that Will was straight, but he still wondered if Em had ever had a crush, or if—like he and Kay—they'd always been like brothers.

"Hey," Will said.

"Hi." Arthur strode forward, hand out. "Arthur. Good to meet you."

Will glanced down at Arthur's hand, blinking. "Hey," he said again, then, "Will." He switched his glass of water to his left hand and gripped Arthur's hand with his right.

The handshake was brief and damp; Arthur suspected that most of the sweat was his own.

The way Will was looking at him reminded him uncomfortably of his childhood—all those times he'd gone dashing into offices or boardrooms, bursting with news, only to be greeted by his father's polite, puzzled expression and some variation on, "Arthur, whatever are you doing in here? Run along now."

Hoping to cover the awkwardness, Arthur said, "Hey, mate, I'm sorry about your car."

"What?" Will's eyes bugged wide. "Ems, what’s he on about?"

_Oh, lovely,_ Arthur thought. _He didn’t even know._

But Em just laughed. "No, Will, it's cool. The car lives. He means about giving up the parking space."

"Ah," Will said, shrugging. "No skin. What're you driving then?"

"Bimmer," Em crowed, picking through the takeaway cartons. "A red one. With the _lushest_ seats you ever sat on. Seriously, I dream of them sometimes when I'm numbing my arse on the train."

"A red one." Will said flatly, watching Em. "A red one, he says."

"The, ah, new M3," Arthur added, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand _was_ clammy.

"Nice." Will nodded slowly. "Very nice. Definitely don’t want to leave that out on the street. Not round here. Daiquiri-swilling gobshites."

"Er…" Arthur looked from Will to Em; the latter just shook his head and mouthed, "Looong story."

Will drained his glass and placed it in the sink.

"Well, dead on my feet, me. Ems, will you two please try and keep it down."

_"Will."_

"What? We both know you—"

"We won’t disturb you," Em cut in. His cheeks had gone crimson, and it took Arthur a moment to work out why.

When he did, he felt his own face heat. He was used to crude language and innuendo—he heard an endless stream of it in the dressing room—but this was definitely different. And weird.

"I'm off early tomorrow," Em continued, "but I'll leave coffee in the blue thermos, yeah? We'll finish catching up once you're back on GMT."

"Sounds good, Ems. Cheers." Will squeezed Em's shoulder, nodded at Arthur, and padded out of the kitchen. "Get a room, dearies," he called towards the living room before disappearing, yawning, down the hall.

Em turned to rummage in a drawer. "So that's my Wills. Not at his finest but—hey, looks like we've got chopsticks, egg spoons, or pastry forks." He held up a fistful of utensils with an apologetic smile. "We're behind on the washing up. Choose your weapon."

"Does he even know who I am?" Arthur said, snatching one of the lopsided forks. He was near-useless with chopsticks. He could bluff his way through takeaway, but it was always a frustrating, messy process.

"Well, he prefers tennis, actually. Hasn't followed football since we were small, but _yes,_ Mister Swellhead Fancyboots, he does know who you are."

"No, not—" Arthur buried the fork in a half-eaten carton of noodles, curled his hands around Em's shoulders and stepped in close. "Does he know that I'm your _boyfriend,_ not just some bloke who stopped by for a… a noisy shag?"

"Arthur, what the fuck?" Em dropped the utensils, unsorted, back into the open drawer. "Of course he knows."

"He wasn't acting like it. He barely looked at me. And he implied—"

"He barely _knows_ you," Em snapped, shrugging out of Arthur's grasp. "And I told you, he's tired. But since he _does_ know I'm seeing you—and it's a bit late to be coming round for tea—it isn’t that unreasonable to expect you might be here for sex, now is it?"

"Oh, I… shit, sorry. I'm—" Arthur reached out, running his fingers over the thin, soft cotton of Em's T-shirt, tugging on his stiff-set shoulders until he relented and let Arthur shuffle forward and bury his face in the crook of his neck.

"Sorry, Emmett," he said. "I'm tired too. Fucking exhausted, come to think of it. That match took all my legs, and Hector's just done my head in."

"Ah, that explains it." Em's breath tickled the hairs on Arthur's neck.

"What?"

"Why you're being such an arse. It's all that's left."

"Yeah, guess so," Arthur whispered, smiling into Em's neck. He squeezed perfect palmfuls of solid shoulder, rubbed his face against Em's skin, and wished he could just stay like this—hibernate until some other poor sod came out, neither civilisation nor football imploded, and things got a little easier.

He could just imagine what Hector would have to say to that plan. He took a deep breath.

"God, I stink," Arthur pulled back, sniffing at his pits. "Hector gave me the nervous sweats. No wonder Will was in such a hurry to leave."

"Don’t be daft," Em said, tugging Arthur firmly back into place. He ran his hands under the back of Arthur's shirt and began kneading the muscles there. "You only stink like yourself. I don’t mind."

"Feels nasty though," Arthur mumbled. But he stayed put.

"Well, you're welcome to use the shower, but—"

Arthur's stomach gave an insistent growl.

"But maybe we should eat first," Em said, giving Arthur a brief hug before pulling away. "Eat and talk, yeah?"

Arthur nodded wearily. For a moment he'd considered putting off the talk for another day and asking Em to join him in the shower. Just to hold him up, really, as he was so tired. And to scrub his back. And maybe slip a soapy finger or two between his legs, and stroke—

"Arthur?"

"Huh?"

"Grab whatever you want to drink and let's take this lot to my room." Em began gathering up cartons.

* * *

Em listened patiently as Arthur recounted his conversations with Kay and Hector in between forkfuls of noodles and bites of lukewarm dumpling.

In fact, Arthur thought Em was being a bit too patient. He smiled and shook his head ruefully at times—mostly when Arthur was talking about Kay—but otherwise seemed unfazed.

"Well?" Arthur said, viciously stabbing the last dumpling. He'd got worked up all over again just talking about it.

"I think 'spermy eyes' has to be the most disturbing bodily concept I've encountered since gross anatomy." Em grinned. "Give Kay my compliments."

Arthur nearly choked on the dumpling. "That's all you have to say?"

Em held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. "Sounds like it went pretty well, all things considered."

"Em, he implied clubs might not want me if they knew I'm gay. And he's saying no Avalon or date nights at The Kitchens or—"

"Weddings and parades. Yes, I heard." Em lay a tentative hand on Arthur's leg—they were sitting opposite one another on the floor, as Arthur hadn’t been able to promise he wouldn't get the dipping sauces on the duvet. "And I'm outraged, of course, on principle. But Pride's not 'til summer, I'm not big on posh dining, and despite what Freya says, it was never my dream to live life à la _Footballers' Wives."_

"But I want to take you out." Arthur realised he was gripping the fork as if his life depended on it. With a sigh, he chucked it into one of the empty cartons. "I want to do the normal stuff other couples do—films, shopping, clubbing, all that."

"Last I checked, two blokes catching a film together wasn't considered terribly scandalous, and we can always throw a hood and collar on you and sneak you into Avalon on leather nights." Em winked and gave Arthur's ankle a squeeze. "But, honestly? Would things be all that different if I was a woman?"

"Wait, what?" Arthur's brain had snagged on the idea of being led, hooded, around a packed club—hidden in plain sight, perfectly anonymous and protected from unwanted advances by a collar and length of chain. "If you were a woman? Are you saying you'd come out with me in drag?"

Em burst out laughing. "Lord no, though it's an idea. I only meant—with the way things are right now, it wouldn’t make much difference. We're both fairly private, right? And given our schedules, and how far apart we live—well, we've hardly got time to go blazing a rainbow trail across Camelot."

Em wormed his hand under the hem of Arthur's trouser leg and slid it up until he was touching bare skin. "If I only get you to myself for a few hours each week, I'd much rather stay in."

Arthur really didn't know how Em did it; they were of a level, but somehow he was looking _up_ at Arthur through those lashes. Combined with the warm, possessive weight of his hand and the suggestive smile, Arthur was done for. He leaned forward, scooted round, and more or less face-planted himself in Em's lap.

"Can't argue with that," he mumbled, snaking his arms round Em's waist and holding on tight.

Em made a contented humming sound. He bent down to kiss Arthur's ear, then slid his fingers through his hair.

The next few minutes were lost to the pleasure of a scalp massage. At first it felt platonic—pure sensation—but as tired as Arthur was, he couldn’t help but awaken to his specific surroundings. He squirmed, feeling the beginnings of arousal, and butted his forehead into Em's stomach.

"Why aren't you more angry?" he said.

"I am. I was, then I got lazy and selfish," Em said softly, carding through Arthur's fringe. "So the world is stupid and unfair. But, ultimately, your agent is willing to support your coming out. That's good, Arthur—frankly, in this business, that's _huge."_

Arthur turned his face to the side. "Probably just wants to keep me quiet through the January transfer window," he grumbled. "See what kind of offers come in, so he can shove them in their faces later if clubs start knocking zeroes off on account of my big gay life. You shouldn't defend him, you know; he thinks you’re a distraction."

"Oh, I know I am. And a bloody good one, too," Em joked.

"Seriously though. Arthur, he's your agent, not your fairy godmother. Sounds like he's giving you the best advice he knows." He paused, stroking Arthur's cheek "You… you don’t have to take it, though, if you disagree."

Arthur hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Em's scrub pants and inhaled. Even with his face averted, he could smell skin and musk through the thin fabric. He squeezed his thighs together to stop himself from rutting against Em’s shin.

"No, I don't. Say, Em?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I suck your cock?"

Arthur felt Em's breath rush out in an audible gust.

"What, now?"

"Yeah. In the shower, if that's still on offer." He twisted his neck so he could look up.

"I thought you were exhausted," Em said piously, but his eyes were full of heat.

"So it will be slow and sloppy," Arthur said, rubbing his cheek against Em's burgeoning erection, "and you might have to help keep me on task."

Em groaned. Arthur reached up and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Hush," he whispered. "You promised Will."

* * *

Arthur learned three important things that night.

First, that the foam kneeling pads beloved by gardeners across Britain were ideal for in-shower cocksucking.

Second, that the fact that Em _had_ such a pad, given that he lived on the fourth floor of a building with nary an allotment in sight, made Arthur jealous.

Third, that Em had apparently had feelings for Arthur long before he'd admitted to them. This came out by way of a toothbrush. Specifically, _the_ toothbrush—the one Arthur had used the night he'd botched his personal coming-out party and wound up sleeping on the sofa, despairing of ever being anything but Em's friend.

It turned out that Em had saved that toothbrush, the sentimental creeper. He'd bought a little plastic case for it and everything, and installed it beside his own in the CFC tumbler he used as a tooth glass.

Arthur couldn’t decide what tickled him more—the shifty face Em made when he admitted as much to Arthur, or the fact that he'd done it in the first place. Both went a long way towards mitigating his jealousy.

They slept nude, curled round one another in the narrow bed. Em had started to pull his scrubs back on after their shower, but Arthur had stopped him.

"Please," he'd said. "Don't. I want to be… I want to feel all of you. Just skin on skin."

With an indulgent smile, Em had flung the scrubs into a hamper and tugged on Arthur's hand, murmuring, "Well get over here and keep my skinny arse warm then."

* * *

The first team didn’t have to be in until one, but Arthur insisted on getting up early with Em and driving him to Knightswood.

"You know, I don't think this is quite what Hector had in mind when he talked about keeping a low profile," Em said as Arthur roared up out of the car park and butted his way into the sluggish current of morning traffic.

"Yeah, about that. I've been thinking."

"Oh dear. Shall I warn management?"

Arthur glanced over in time to catch Em's sleepy, self-satisfied smile. He was partially reclining in the passenger seat, eyes closed, hands curled around his thermal mug.

"Oi, you—be nice," Arthur said, "else I won't let you save your seat settings."

When he next looked over, Em was staring at him in awe.

"You mean, I could—" He peeled one hand off his thermal mug and stroked the supple black leather next to his thigh.

"Oh, yes." Arthur merged onto the motorway and immediately slid into the inside lane, shifting up to overtake a lorry. "It's fully adjustable, with memory function. Touch of a button, and any time you climb in, your arse would be treated just how it likes."

"Wow, was that—that was your attempt at a _line,_ wasn't it?"

"Maybe. Did it work?"

"Um, I'd save it for the _Knight Rider_ kink squad. Your car's definitely hot, but I'm not sure I want to be molested by it."

Arthur laughed. "Nah. Transformers are kind of sexy though."

"Strange," Em said, patting Arthur's thigh. "Talented, gorgeous, and rolling in coin, but undeniably strange."

"Says the man who built a shrine to my toothbrush," Arthur shot back.

"For the last time, I forgot to throw it out, and then I thought I might as well save it, in case you ever—oh, whateverthefuck! You're determined to be an arse about this, aren’t you?"

"Yep," Arthur said, grinning.

Em lifted two fingers next to Arthur's face. Then he took a sip of his tea and pretended to go back to sleep. However, Arthur noticed him wriggling about and surreptitiously fiddling with the various seat controls as they made their way towards Knightswood.

They were a few minutes away from the training ground when Arthur realised that Em's eyes were open again—and staring at him.

"What?"

"When we started out, you said you'd been thinking. What were you thinking?"

Arthur reached out with his left hand and gave Em's knee a squeeze. "We hide in plain sight," he said. "Until we're ready, or Hector gives the green light, whichever comes first."

Em's brow furrowed, so Arthur rushed on. "I'm still coming out to the people who matter. Coach, Leon, the lads—they need to know the truth. But you said it, two blokes in a cinema do not a gay scandal make. Most people assume they're mates, unless they're snogging, right?"

"Right," Em said cautiously.

"Well, think about it. Mates crash at one another's flats all the time. They go for drinks, meals, give one another lifts to work—same bloody line we've been trotting out, only maybe we don’t need to sell it so hard. Or sneak around like we've got something to hide.

"The public will see what they like, what they can wrap their heads round. We just don’t bother correcting their assumptions."

"Hmm," Em said. "But what about Mordred?"

"Let him lurk. Let him whisper. Let him take all the bloody photos he likes. If he crosses the line without proof, Hector and the club will sort him out. Or the courts, if necessary. Unless he has snaps of us copping off under the floodlights in the Citadel's centre circle, sounds like there is a depressingly good chance no one will believe him anyway."

"Because you think people couldn’t imagine us sleeping together? Arthur, I don’t—"

Arthur accelerated past the players’ car park and whipped round the side of the training complex, nearer the entrance to the offices.

"Because I am a footballer," Arthur said, pulling into a space marked "Staff Only" with a squeal of tires. He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over to give Em a sound smack on the lips. "And according to Hector, footballers aren't gay."

Em's shocked expression slowly gave way to a hesitant smile and amused, half-lidded eyes. "So, ah, what was that then—another kick in the teeth?"

"That," Arthur whispered in Em's ear, "was one mate wishing another a good day’s hard graft. Off you trot, and text me if you want a lift to the station later."

"You're completely mental," Em said as he grabbed his bag from the back seat, stashed his mug in a side pocket, and climbed out of the car. His words were tempered by the fact that he was grinning from ear to blushing ear. "You're mental, I'm delusional, and we're both going to be on the dole come Christmas."

"Love you too, Mister Gloomypants," Arthur said, the words out before he could over-think them.

Em looked up from adjusting his bag strap across his chest, a strange expression on his face.

Arthur had a sudden urge to flee, but Em shook his head, breaking out into a grin once more. "Did you seriously just call me Mister Gloomypants?"

"Um, yeah?"

"Arthur, my _mam_ called me that. When I was, like, five or six." Em pointed a finger at Arthur, doing a piss-poor job of looking threatening. "If you want to insult me, you’ll have to try much harder."

Arthur released the breath he’d been holding.

"Oh, I’ll be sure and add it to my training schedule, sir." He gave a mock salute.

"See that you do," Em said gravely. Then, with a wink, he turned and headed towards the door.

Arthur smiled to himself as he re-buckled his seatbelt. Em had heard him, he _had_ to have, so the fact that he’d only made an issue over the Mister Gloomypants thing—well, that meant something, didn’t it?

Before he headed back to the players’ lot, he reached over and pressed the memory button for the passenger seat, saving Em’s settings.


	23. Five-a-Side

After changing into his training kit, Arthur had a second breakfast in the canteen (he'd had toast at Em's, but that hardly counted) and heard the latest on Catrina's quest for romantic thrills amongst Camelot's over forties. She sent him off with a sack of the little honey and almond pastries that, technically, were off-limits to the players.

"If that scrumptious father of yours needs a date to the Christmas party, you tell him Catrina in food services wouldn't say no," she called after him, earning a round of laughs and lusty cheers from the other canteen staff.

With a sack of pastries and a whole morning ahead of him, Arthur decided to seek out Alice in marketing. After all, she'd taught him his fractions on Jaffa Cakes and custard tarts, and he hadn't been to see her since he'd been brought up from the reserves.

Marketing was located, along with the other suit-wearing divisions of CFC, in a rabbit warren of cubicles and offices occupying a wing similar to the one that housed the medical and coaching staff. Arthur dangled the paper sack over a partition wall until Alice ordered him, with a chuckle, to step into her cubicle.

"I'm hearing good things about you, Arthur," she said, licking pastry flakes off her fingers. She then wiped them on the uppermost of a stack of printed spreadsheets.

Alice had always called him by his given name—even as a boy, when other adults had used generic epithets or referred to him as the "young Pendragon"—for which Arthur had always adored her.

"And I suppose they must be true, as your name and number have been selling like hotcakes in the club shop." She plucked a pair of spectacles from her bosom and glanced at her computer monitor. "You've outsold Orkney and Belcourt for the past fortnight. At this rate—terrifying thought—there will be an army of Pendragons swarming the Citadel on match days. Take care you don't get too big for your boots."

"Ah, no chance, Alice," Arthur said with a wink, thinking, _Em will keep me in line._ "That's why I only had the one pastry."

It was only half-ten when Alice shooed Arthur from her cubicle, so he put in some time in the gym before heading outside to see if he could join the reserves' scrimmage.

Typically, first team players only trained with the reserves when they were out of favour, or else coming back from injury, so he wasn't surprised to be greeted by good-natured jeers and cries of, "What’s he done now, eh?"

Arthur grinned. "Why, I'm here out of the goodness of my heart, lads," he said, "to show you how it's done properly."

A fresh barrage of taunts ensued, but a moment's inattention by young Dagonet was all Arthur needed. He flicked out a boot, nicking the ball from the lad's feet, and soon he was cantering across the pitch, dribbling round the blokes in gold scrimmage vests as if they were no more than training cones.

"Well come on then, who's going to stop me?" he shouted, laughing as he spun away from another challenger and headed on a mazy run up the pitch.

He was still buzzing with energy when the whistle blew for the end of the scrimmage. He stayed to help the dispirited Dagonet with his body shielding and footwork, then jogged over to the first team's practice pitch to help the training staff set up for their afternoon session.

At last, sweaty and content, he headed back inside to grab some lunch. He hadn't had this much fun just hanging around Knightswood for ages.

He was in the boot room, changing back into his trainers, when he heard familiar voices in the corridor outside.

"—run of good form and now he's too good to drink with us," Myror said.

"Kay said—" Leon began, but Myror cut him off.

"I know what Kay said, and it fucking reeked! Look, mate, I know Morgana's got you by the short and curlies, but you don't owe _him_ anything. Pulling that stunt on Saturday, coming in early to train—what does that look like to you?"

"Dedication."

"Kissing arse, more like. Coach said it—he's after the captaincy. Only he's not man enough to say so to your face."

"Come off it, Myror," Leon said angrily. "This is the Wart we're talking about. This club's his whole life. He's eager, but he's no backstabber."

"Suit yourself," Myror said, "but I—"

They moved on then, leaving Arthur sitting on the narrow bench in the boot room, one shoe on, the other clutched tightly in his hands.

* * *

Arthur went into training apprehensive, but Kay immediately trotted up with a lopsided grin. He made a big production of commiserating with Arthur over him having to squire Hector around Camelot's juice joints while the rest of them had been quaffing real ale and gobbling sausages. This prompted some of the others to take the mick, and by the time they'd finished their warm-up run, Arthur felt reassured that at least not everyone on the squad felt as Myror did. Still, he felt off his rhythm all through training, and it wasn't his imagination that, during five-a-side, Myror kept ignoring his calls.

As they headed back towards the complex, Arthur tugged Leon aside and said, "Hey, can I have a word?"

"Sure thing, Wart, but—now?"

Arthur nodded. "It's kind of important." The last thing he, or the club, needed heading into Albion away was dissent and whispers in the dressing room. He wanted to reassure Leon that he had no designs on his armband.

Leon's eyes grew wide. "Oh," he said, clutching Arthur's biceps. "Oh, right. Here, let's go in the —wait, no, someone's bound to come in. Aw, fuck. Where do you—I mean, is there somewhere you'd be more comfortable?"

Taken aback, Arthur stammered, "Er, ball shed's fine, actually."

"Right, right," Leon said, ushering Arthur in ahead of him, peering both ways before sliding the door closed. He stood awkwardly for a moment, hands clenching and unclenching; then, to Arthur's great shock, he enveloped him in a sweaty bear hug.

"Morgana told me you had something important you'd be needing to get off your chest."

"What the... uh, Leon?" Then the penny dropped, and Arthur would have laughed if Leon hadn't been squeezing the breath out of him. _Bloody Morgana!_

"It'll be okay, Wart," Leon went on, thumping his back, then pulling away. "She wouldn't tell me what it was, said it wasn't her place, but I'm guessing it's some serious shit because she warned me to shut my face and just listen. So you spit it out, whatever it is, and I promise we'll sort it."

Arthur stared. "Leon, I—" He paused, distracted by Leon's earnest nodding.

"Come on, that's it, mate," Leon said. "Better out than in."

Arthur sighed. He hadn't planned on doing this just yet—it had been a rollercoaster of a weekend, and they had a big match coming up—but then he hadn't planned any of this, had he?

"Well, all I _was_ going to say was that I'm not trying to nick the captaincy."

Leon took a step back. "What? Course you're not, where did you—oh, don't pay any attention to Myror. He's just being a jealous cunt. I mean, twa—fuck me, she's right, they're all pussy words. What's a swearing man to do?"

Arthur laughed. "It's rough, I'll admit. Maybe try referencing your own bits?"

"Yeah?" Leon made a dubious face. "Jealous... cock?"

"There you go."

"Doesn't sound right," Leon said, frowning.

"No," Arthur admitted. His sweat had cooled by now, and the ball shed was scant protection from the raw damp of December. He tugged the zip on his warm-up jacket up to his chin and shoved his hands in his armpits.

"Here." Leon produced a pair of fleece gloves from his pockets and thrust them at Arthur.

"Ah, cheers."

"Look, I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I know my men, alright? Myror is a cynical bastard. I worship his boots, but he's spent his whole career bouncing from club to club, always seeking the greenest pasture. He doesn't understand someone like you, Wart, but I do. I know you'd never fuck your mates over just to get ahead."

Arthur didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded and looked down, pretending to adjust the gloves.

Leon could be a lad with the best of them, but it was this version of the man—earnest, selfless, and principled, in his own weird way—that had earned Arthur's respect (and, he suspected, Morgana's affections).

"And I _also_ know that you don't talk to Morgana about football," Leon added quietly, "so that can't be what she meant."

"No, I—" Arthur looked up. "Shit, Leon, I wasn't planning to do this today, but I have been meaning to tell you. It's just that I—"

_I actually care what he thinks,_ Arthur realised. _That's why this is so much harder._ He couldn't tell Leon to go fuck himself if he had a problem with Arthur's sexuality. Leon was more than his captain; he was his future brother-in-law.

Clearly growing impatient, Leon knocked a stack of training cones off a nearby bench and straddled it.

"Sit," he said, smacking the wood between his legs. "And out with it, Wart, whatever it is."

Resigned, Arthur perched on the edge of the bench. "Do you remember that night at The Kitchens, after the slog at Escetia? The night Tristan got engaged?"

"Yup. Think so. Why?"

"You notice that couple up at the bar, the two blokes?"

"Can't say I did. Arthur, what—"

"That's what I want, Leon. That's me." Arthur glanced over and met Leon's eyes. "I like men. I'm dating a man."

"Oh, that's—wait, what?" Leon looked genuinely shocked, but not disgusted or angry or, worse still, _disappointed,_ which is what Arthur had feared.

"I fancy blokes."

Leon shook his head, brow furrowed. "Since when? You've never... and Viv. What about Viv?"

"Complete nonstarter," Arthur said. "Acknowledged by both parties, from the beginning. Viv was getting what she wanted, though, and I—well, I thought I was doing Morgana a favour, but it turns out she was just trying to protect me. Or provoke me, maybe."

Leon snorted. "She does that."

Arthur thought back on all the kisses that never strayed from cheek territory, the separate cars, the fact that he and Viv had never once arranged to meet privately. He swung his left leg round so he was also straddling the bench, facing Leon.

"Come on, Leon, you didn't seriously think Viv and I—?"

"Nah. Never could figure out why not, though." He reached up to scratch the back of his head. "So, blokes..."

"Yes."

"Dating blokes."

"Yeah." Arthur dared a small smile. "Well, only one, at present; but he's a good one."

Leon nodded slowly. Arthur knew this was more his way of processing the information than anything else.

"How did you—no, never mind." He eyed Arthur intently. "You okay though? You're, um... healthy?"

"Of course. I'm fit as a fucking— _oh."_ Arthur was glad he was sitting down.

"You mean HIV, don't you?" He saw Leon flinch, just hearing the letters, and it was hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Seriously, that's the first thing you think of? No, Leon, I don't have HIV. You can call off the bleach shower."

"No, I didn't mean... I don't." Leon reached out, but Arthur shrugged away and stood. He stripped off the gloves and dropped them on the bench.

Leon stared at them, face growing hard. Suddenly he sprang up and grabbed Arthur by the shoulders, pushing him up against a shelving unit.

"Dammit, Wart! You don't get to put me in the wrong here. It wasn't an unreasonable question. The way Morgana built it up, I thought you were going to tell me you were fucking _dying,_ or worse, quitting the team."

"Leon, I—"

Leon let go, and began to pace, running his hands through his hair. "And why the fuck else would we be having this conversation secret squirrel style, in a goddamn _ball shed,_ instead of over a pint like normal mates?"

"You're the one who suggested it," Arthur retorted.

"Because I thought you had some big grim secret!" Leon shouted.

"I _did._ I just told you," Arthur cried.

Leon snorted. "Yeah, that you've been lying to me, even though you're on _my bloody squad_ and I've known your family for _years._ That's not grim, Arthur. That's pathetic."

"What, you'd rather I be ill, is that it? You'd rather I tell you I have HIV or cancer or—" Arthur lashed out at a nearby mesh bag bulging with practice balls, sending it skidding across the floor. "Leon, you know how it is in this game. I couldn't just—I _can't_ just—" He waved his hands, mute with frustration.

"You selfish little..." Leon squared off in front of Arthur, scowling. "Right, we're going to talk to the lads."

"Leon, I can't—"

Leon gripped him in another bruising hug. "Oh, yes you can, Arthur," he said fiercely. "And you will."

At first Arthur tried to pull away, but Leon only held on tighter, gripping Arthur by the back of the neck. They struggled wordlessly for a moment, then Arthur gave in and slumped into Leon's embrace.

They stood there, chests heaving, breath coming in ragged pants.

"Okay, whatever. Let me go, you big fucking lump," Arthur said, pushing blindly at Leon's chest as he sought to blink away the sudden moisture in his eyes.

Leon released his death grip, but he kept a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"Myror was right about one thing," he said. "You've been acting like a prize you-know-what. Week in, week out you ask us to trust you—rely on you, respect you—but won't let us know who you really are? That's shite, and it ends now. Come on." He turned and walked to the door, sliding it open with a crash.

And there stood Coach and Dr. Kilgary, not two yards away, the latter's head wreathed in pipe smoke.

"Well, well." Dr. Kilgary removed the pipe from between his lips and beamed. "Gaius, I believe we've solved both mysteries. Here are your missing troops, and I can happily report that there are neither ghosts nor vandals in the ball shed."

Coach lifted an eyebrow. "Belcourt? Pendragon? I'll see you in my office in five."

* * *

"Is there a world record for most awkward conversations in one day? Because I think I may have topped it." Arthur was sprawled facedown on his bed, head pillowed on his folded arms. He'd propped his mobile in the crook of an elbow.

_"I doubt that. I've heard Gwen's stories about going through puberty with a single father."_

"Ugh."

_"Mmm, exactly. And besides, maybe it's a good thing. Multiple feathered creatures murdered with a minimum of ammo and all that."_

"You make it sound so horrible."

_"Wasn't it? You were near catatonic on the way to the station. I thought about carjacking you and driving us back to mine."_

"Maybe you should have. Then I'd have a warm tongue in my arse instead of—"

_"Arthur!"_ Em whispered. _"Please, I'm still on the train. Think of the children."_

"Spoilsport." Arthur was still fully clothed and plugless, but he'd thought it worth a try. Phone sex seemed infinitely preferable to remembering the look on Coach's face.

"Actually, it wasn't that bad. Apart from the bajillion-odd times when I noticed I was in _Coach's office,_ talking to _Coach_ about my sex life."

_"Not something anyone would relish, but everyone survived, yes?"_

"He doesn't have an issue with me, personally, but he made it clear that he has to put the good of the team first. Convinced Leon that force-outing me in the showers wasn't necessarily the best way to go, so..."

_"So he doesn't want you coming out?"_

Arthur sighed. "Not on a grand scale, no. Said I need to think about what I'd be asking of the lads if I went public—which fucked with my head a little—but then he pretty much admitted he'd prefer it if he could stick the lot of us in boxes at the end of the day, and not have to deal with any of our lives outside the club."

_"Hey, it could happen. Albion just got a cryo chamber. Ice baths are so last century, apparently."_

"Don't give him any ideas," Arthur warned. "But, honestly. Despite all that, it was... surprisingly okay."

As they'd risen to leave, Coach had asked Arthur for a private word. He'd hemmed and hawed at first, toying with the whistle he wore round his neck. For a horrifying moment Arthur had though he was about to get a lecture on sexual hygiene, or something equally mortifying.

In the end, though, Coach had clasped his hands behind his back and fixed him with a solemn gaze.

"I promise you, Arthur, that whatever you decide, you'll have the full support of the club," he'd said. Then, raising an eyebrow, he'd added, "To the extent it is within my power to give it."

The significance of those final words were not lost on Arthur. Coach had autonomy when it came to matters on the pitch and in the war room, but at the end of the day he worked for Uther and his shareholders, just like everyone else.

Still, knowing Coach was on Arthur's side in this, regardless of his father's reaction—it felt like good ground to be standing on.

"Of course, he could still blow a gasket if he finds out I'm sleeping with my physio," Arthur teased.

_"Jaysus, don't joke about that."_

"Relax. I agreed to your workplace discretion rules, didn't I? Telling the gaffer seems like a clear violation. Besides, I got the distinct impression he'd rather not know any details."

_"Was it the hands over the ears or the loud singing?"_

Arthur chuckled. "More the throat-clearing and puckered face. I did tell Leon, though, back in the dressing room. You should have seen _his_ face—classic cartoon lightbulb moment. Raged at me all over again for keeping it a secret, but said he was very relieved it was you."

_"Really? Why?"_

"Because he respects you, Em, and you're part of the club. His main worry seemed to be that I'd fallen into the clutches of some gay crusader who'd want to whisk me away from the homo-less wasteland that is football."

_"Hmm. No worries there, at least not at present. I am awfully attached to the sight of you prancing around in your kit, plus I'd look terrible in tights."_

"Oh, I disagree. Those trousers you wore to Avalon were pretty snug, and they fuelled my wank fantasies for _weeks,_ mate. Them and those boots and—ungh—that fucking _lip gloss._ That wrecked me."

_"I know,"_ Em said, his voice low and wicked. _"Why d'you think I brought it to Wessex?"_

Arthur grabbed his phone and flipped onto his back, muttering, "Who's worrying about the children now, you bloody cocktease." He heard Em laugh quietly.

He stretched, grimacing as he felt the tightness in his muscles. He probably shouldn't have done quite so much showboating in front of the reserves. Or standing around a damp ball shed directly after training.

"Fuck I'm sore. Could have used your hands earlier."

He could use Em's hands now, actually. Tired as he was, his cock had taken half an interest at the reminder of past adventures. He adjusted himself in his pants.

_"Sorry, but you know Elyan's got priority. If he can get the all-clear from Doctor Tally by Friday, Coach has all but promised him a run-out against Albion."_

"Really? That's fantastic. He looked sharp in training this afternoon." Arthur smirked, remembering some of the comments he'd heard earlier in the day. "And the reserves are relieved to be shot of him, I think. Half of them couldn't keep up, even when he only had full use of the one leg."

_"He is an insanely speedy man. Gwen swears she can actually see a blur on the telly when he's at full stride... speaking of which, can you do us a favour?"_

"Make sure the cameras catch me whipping my shirt off heroically after scoring? They'll caution me, you know, but that was a damn fine cake she made me."

Em made a sound that was more snort than laugh. _"Good to know your ego survived the day intact. Gwen's well over you, Mister August; she finally flipped the calendar and discovered Lance smouldering away atop December."_

"Ha! I know, right? We gave him so much shit for that. I mean, the man's not bad-looking, but put him in front of a camera and things get a little unreal."

_"Mmm. He's got that razor-advert 'I just bathed in testosterone, love, but before we shag I insist on helping your nan with her shopping' thing going on."_

It was said in a parody of Lance's soft, measured tones, but it was still _Em,_ and he'd still said "shag." And Arthur was still half-hard. He slipped a hand under his shirt and idly scratched his belly.

"Don't think we've been picking up on the same subtext, mate."

_"Clearly you need to watch more telly with me and mine."_

"Clearly." When he'd done scratching, Arthur left his hand on his stomach, fingertips just brushing his beltline. Why not? Phone sex didn't necessarily have to involve both parties equally, and he'd done it before, brought himself off to Em's chatter or extended goodnights.

Arthur began undoing his belt buckle.

"So, what's this favour then? Apart from not telling Elyan his sister's been ogling Lance?"

_"Oh, right. Tickets."_

"Tickets?"

There was a long enough silence that Arthur paused, hand on his zip, and held the phone away from his head. He peered at the screen to see if the call had been dropped.

"Em? You still there?"

_"Yeah, sorry. Nearing my stop and I needed to—anyways, um, yes. Gwen's been talking about surprising Elyan at his first match back. She was hoping it would be at the Citadel, so she could take you up on your offer, bring Freya and her mates, but... well, any chance you could sort something at the Cliffs this weekend, since it's looking good that he'll play? There's nothing officially left for away fans, but I know you have other channels, and I—"_

"Whoa, slow down." Arthur switched his mobile to his left hand and finished navigating the zip with his right. He parted the fly and cupped himself through his boxer briefs, grinding down a little on the base of his cock. "Channels, um, right. Yeah. No problem. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

_"You certain? I don't want to take advantage. Just because we're... mates and all."_

"Em," Arthur said, slowly easing his swollen cock from its confines, "that's not taking advantage. Or if it is, I don't mind it one bit. Take all the advantage you like. Your mates have done plenty for me; it's about time I returned the favour."

_"Oh, okay. Cheers."_

"Mmm. Now, how much—many? The tickets, I mean. How many do you need?" He bit his lower lip and breathed through his nose, trying not to give himself away as he gripped the base of his cock and slowly twisted his hand upward. "Four? Six?"

_"Six would be grand! But if that's too many, four's probably fine. I can check with Gwen later, but even two is more than she has now, so, really whatever—"_

"Em?"

_"What?"_

"Em... ah... it's good. I can do six. Or sixteen, so just tell me. What you want. Tell me."

_"Yeah? Let's say eight then. Gwen's got a load of mates in London."_

"That's good. That's _really_ good."

_"Um, yes, it is. But I don't see why you're—oh. Oh. Well, here's me. Gotta run. But thanks again for the lift and the tickets and, well, you know what you said to me this morning? Not the Mister Gloomypants bit, but the other?"_

"Hmm?" Suddenly frantic to finish before Em rang off, Arthur increased his pace. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and conjured up the image of Em on his knees in the showers at Wessex, smearing on lip gloss; of Em's mouth stretched wide and cheeks stained crimson; of his hair in disarray and cock straining his jeans. Arthur knew just what that cock tasted like now. He knew the length and girth and heft of it, knew the sound it made smacking wetly against his face and the heat of it in his hand...

_"Well, you too, mate. You too. Bye!"_

"Wuh? Em, wait, shit, I— _ahfuckyeah."_

Arthur tossed the phone away as he came, giddily wondering whether he'd just violated every etiquette rule _ever_ regarding romantic declarations or invented a new class of orgasm.

Later, when he found his mobile wedged between two pillows, he saw there was an unread text from Em. It was a cheeky smiley face, tongue poking out, followed by a single word: _Wanker!_


	24. Waiting Games

In Arthur's experience, no matter where he was in the world, one hotel was very much like the next. He wasn't inured to material luxury—although he came from a privileged background, he'd spent much of his life in institutional settings—but it was hard to get excited about how many stars a hotel rated when all he ever saw of it was the lobby and lifts, the pool, his room, and the bland, partitioned banquet hall where he ate his bland, nutritious team meal.

There was no denying, however, that the Epoch was top class. This, combined with the fact that the squad had been flown to London, rather than suffering a coach ride down the M1, indicated to Arthur that his father saw Albion as a particularly worthy opponent.

It wasn't hard to work out why. Albion weren't necessarily the best team in the league, but they were the richest, in terms of both capital and past success, and they sat comfortably in the top quarter of the table. Their massive international following (something Arthur knew his father coveted) ensured a steady stream of sponsors queuing to pay for the privilege of slapping their logos on everything from the shirts to the seat back cup holders. If Camelot could defeat Albion in their own fortress, not only would they have a serious shot at rising to fourth, but they might turn a few of those sponsors' heads as well.

"Nervous?" Gareth said. "Know I am. Always have trouble sleeping away, night before a big match."

Arthur looked over at Gareth's open, eager face, then back at the flat screen that dominated one wall of their room. He'd been miles away, he realised, drumming his heels against the footboard of his bed. He had absolutely no idea what they were watching. Something involving men in coveralls, apparently.

"Sorry," he said, sitting up and rubbing his face. "Not so much nervous as..." _Horny, and irritated, and about to claw my way out of my own skin._ "... restless."

"You can have a go at my travel Zen garden, if you like."

"Huh?"

"The sand and the teeny rocks? Here." Gareth stood and rummaged in his suitcase, producing a small wooden box. He removed the lid and showed Arthur the contents: a packet of fine sand, half a dozen rugged pebbles and a bundle of miniature garden tools nestled in a tray. "Know it sounds half baked, but it is soothing. Got it for me mam, to help with her blood pressure."

"Does it work at a distance, mate?" Arthur said, laughing. "Because otherwise I think _she_ is the one who is supposed to be using it."

Gareth's face clouded over, and Arthur could have kicked himself for being so careless. Em had told him of Gareth's mum's longstanding struggles with both her mental and physical health.

"Aw, fuck, mate. Don't listen to me. I'm only—" Arthur tried to catch Gareth's eye, but he turned away and busied himself trying to fit the lid back on the box. His hands were shaking though, and he gave it up as a bad job, slamming it on the desk with a muffled curse. One of the pebbles bounced out and skittered away across the polished wood.

Gareth swore again, his voice breaking a little. Arthur could practically hear the tears threatening to burst forth.

_Oh terrific, now I'm to spend the evening playing nursemaid._

Arthur pushed the thought away guiltily. He knew Gareth looked up to him; that was why Coach had them rooming together. He was supposed to be making sure Gareth's head was on straight before the big match, not acting like a selfish prick.

After all, it wasn't Gareth's fault that Arthur hadn't been properly alone with Em for more than five minutes all week, nor that the flight attendants on the trip down from Camelot had paid Em and his smiles _far_ more attention than Arthur thought strictly necessary. It wasn't Gareth's fault that Em had spent dinner mere yards away—yet entirely out of reach—ignoring Arthur, chatting to the other staff, constantly putting things _in his mouth_ with fork and fingers, constantly sipping and swallowing and wiping his lips…

_Get a hold of yourself, Pendragon. This shite is exactly what you were warned about, what you promised wouldn't happen._

Shaking his head clear, Arthur stood and walked over to the desk. He lay a tentative hand on Gareth's shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, Arthur spread his fingers and gave a squeeze.

"Hey," he said. "I was well out of order, mate. Been spending too much time with Kay. His foot-in-mouth is clearly contagious."

Gareth laughed softly. "Ah, get on then. It's nowt," he said, but he reached up over his shoulder and gripped Arthur's hand. He took a deep breath, then let go, swiping at his eyes with a knuckle.

"Thing is, I did give it her, last year, but she... well, she has these spells, you know, where her memory goes funny?" Gareth turned and sank back into the armchair he'd commandeered to watch telly.

Arthur pulled out the desk chair and straddled it, propping his arms on the back. "Yeah?"

"She wrapped it up and put it on the table for me birthday this year." Gareth shook his head ruefully. "Whacking great bow and all. What was I to do? She's... well, she's me _mam."_

Arthur swallowed against the lump in his throat, thinking of the framed picture locked away in his father's desk drawer.

"If it were me," he said, "I'd have smiled and said 'cheers, Mum.' Then I'd have started practising with those little wooden rakes." He nodded towards the box. "They look fussy."

A smile spread slowly across Gareth's face. "They are right fiddly things, aren't they? Make me feel as if I've sausage rolls for fingers. You wouldn’t believe—"

There was a loud knock on the door.

"Wart, mate, open up," Leon commanded.

"Or turn on your fucking mobile!" The second voice was Kay's.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur rose and opened the door. Gwaine grinned mischievously from between Kay and Leon's shoulders. Elyan lurked just behind.

"Lads," Arthur greeted them. "Where's the fire?"

"In Gwaine and Tristan's," Leon said. "Poker."

"We're playing for handjobs," Gwaine added with a wink.

"That's rank, mate." Arthur tried giving Gwaine a _look,_ but if the latter's unrepentant smile was anything to go by, he wasn't nearly as good at it as Em. Or perhaps it was just that he didn't possess sufficient blackmail material.

Elyan flicked the back of Gwaine's head. "Actually, it's only grapes and pillow mints."

"We've been texting you for the past half-hour," Kay said, making little head-jerking and side-eye motions that Arthur was at a loss to interpret.

"Yeah? Well, I must have put it on vibrate or something. Sorry." Arthur hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "Gareth and I were watching telly, having a bit of a chat. Not sure we're up for—"

"Course _you're_ not, you geezer," Leon interrupted, voice much too loud. He gave Arthur a manic smile. "We know you like an early night, don't we lads? It's Gareth we're after."

"But you just said you've been—"

"Sorry, mate," Elyan said, looking anything but. "Kay says you'd only eat the stakes."

"Hey, that was only the once! And I'd about ten pints in me. At least I've never mistaken a potted palm for the—"

Kay clapped a hand over Arthur's mouth. Gwaine pressed forward.

"Come on, son," he called over Arthur's shoulder. "Listen to your Auntie Orkney. Let Princess here have his beauty rest. What _you_ need is a nice relaxing game of cards, take your mind off things."

"Alright then," Gareth said, laughing at Kay and Arthur grappling in the doorway. "If I can get past these two. Wart, you sure you don't want to play?"

Kay had resorted to hair-pulling, which was patently unfair considering his own shorn head. Arthur made a grab for his ears.

"Trust me, he really doesn't," Gwaine chuckled.

"Come on lads," Leon said. "Make way. Let the boy out."

Kay let go, lowered his head and butted Arthur in the chest, shoving him back into the room. "Stay here and check your goddamn phone," he growled. Then he pulled away with a triumphant grin and slung an arm round Gareth's shoulder. "This way, good sir. Orkney's up to some funny business with the aces; we're going to catch him out."

Gareth looked back at Arthur. "Wart?"

Behind him, Gwaine, Leon and Elyan all shook their heads.

"No, um. You go on. I think I'll have a bath."

They cleared out with a perky chorus of "good nights" and, from Gwaine, another lewd wink. As soon as the door was closed, Arthur dove for his mobile.

It was off, which meant he'd been so distracted after the flight that he hadn't even remembered to switch it back on. Bloody flight attendants and their perfect teeth.

He was just starting to scroll through the dozens of texts marked "urgent" when there was another knock at the door.

"What now?" he cried, mashing his nose in an effort to peer through the spyhole. "Kay, I've only just— _Em."_

A pair of deep blue eyes goggled at him through the fisheye lens. Arthur nearly dropped his phone in his haste to open the door.

"Em, hey! What are you—shouldn't you be, I mean—" Conscious of their surroundings, Arthur shoved his phone in his pocket, crossed his arms, and did his best to lean casually against the doorframe. He glanced down the corridor. A man in hotel livery stood near the far end, waiting for the lift, but otherwise they were alone.

"What's up, Emrys?"

Em looked Arthur up and down, lips curling into a smirk. "Sir requested turndown service?" he murmured, slipping past Arthur into the room.

"Oh, I—" Arthur's cock was far ahead of his brain, beginning to fill as he stood gawping in the doorway.

Em turned. The sly, playful look was gone. He rolled his eyes and gestured at the door. "Dead bolt and chain, genius. Then get over here."

Arthur obeyed, more than willing not to question whatever schemes had brought Em here if only it meant a moment or two of respite, of not having to keep his hands and his thoughts to himself.

"Fuck, Em, I thought I'd never—" he began, reaching for Em's shoulders.

Em stepped back and pointed to the bed. "Whoa there, handsy. First you sit and tell me why you've been behaving like a bear with a bum full of nettles. Four of your teammates have—separately, mind—asked me if I know what's eating you, and Leon just about begged me to sort you out before your attitude rubs off on the squad."

Stung, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing up fistfuls of the duvet. "You, of course," he said. "Bloody _you."_

"Bloody me?"

"You," Arthur repeated, searching Em's face for some sign that he understood. "You smiling and… eating orange segments with your _fingers,_ for fuck's sake. And that horrible man on the plane, with his tan and his teeth and his stupid moustache—you laughed every time he spoke to you, and he touched you, twice! You were _right there,_ but I couldn't say anything; I can't say anything. I can't touch you, and you won't even look at me sometimes, and I—"

Arthur stood abruptly and pushed past Em, stalking over to the window. Ignoring their reflections, he squinted, making the lights of the city beyond turn into blurry stars.

"I know we said we wouldn't do this, let this interfere with work, but I—" Arthur bowed his head. "I don't know if I can be as casual about everything as you are. Especially when I haven't had you to myself all week."

"Oh, jaysus, Arthur, you—you're _jealous."_

Arthur turned round and saw that Em was staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. He nodded.

"Well, yes."

"And that's it? That's why you've been such a misery-guts all day?"

"Um... yeah? Well, that and, for the record, I'm horny as fuck." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. Although his erection had flagged a bit, he was still tenting his tracksuit bottoms.

Em shook his head, smiling. "Young, dumb and full of cum," he murmured. "I remember those days."

"Hey!" Arthur protested. "I am not dumb."

"But you are being an idiot. Selfish and rude, too, and a bit of a pig—but mostly an idiot."

"Because I want you?" Arthur said, throwing his hands up in exasperation and beginning to pace. "Because I don’t like you messing with my head? I know I shouldn’t be taking it out on the team, but I can’t help it if I—"

_"Arthur."_

Arthur froze.

Em's voice was low, urgent. He crossed to where Arthur stood and took hold of his wrists.

"Yes, I smile at people. I smile at people _all the time._ I also touch them, let them touch me, and laugh if they say something funny. And, true, I do sometimes eat fruit with my fingers. That's not me trying to mess with your head, you paranoid wanker, that's part of being _human._ Or a social primate, actually, if you want to get picky." He squeezed Arthur's wrists and stepped closer, pulling Arthur's arms round his hips.

Arthur let him. He should have resisted, just to prove to himself that he could, but it felt too good. He uncurled his fingers, palming the sharp juts of bone. It sounded stupid, he knew, but it was like Em's hips—and his shoulders—had been made for Arthur's hands.

Em let go of his wrists and reached up between them, cupping the sides of Arthur's head.

"Point being, if I wanted someone else—if I wanted out—I'd say so; I wouldn't play games. I'd never play games with you, Arthur. You're too fucking... fuck." Em pressed his lips tightly together, brow furrowed.

"What?' Arthur whispered.

"Just—" Em slid his hands over Arthur's features, tracing them with his fingertips. He had a fierce expression on his face that was completely at odds with the delicate touch. "Has it ever occurred to you that sometimes I don't look at you because it's so hard to look away?"

"Oh. Um."

"Oh, he says." Em's breath ghosted over Arthur's skin. "Oh _and_ um."

Arthur ducked his head and yanked Em close, burying his face in the side of his neck. "Shut up, Emrys," he mumbled, pressing clumsy kisses to the skin behind Em's ear. "What the fuck else am I supposed to say?"

Em inhaled sharply, his hips shifting restlessly in Arthur's grasp. "Nothing. In fact, I think it is high time you shut the fuck up and let me suck all those dead brain cells out your cock."

* * *

"Put it on me," Em said, twisting the lid off and holding up the little plastic pot.

Arthur was sitting on the edge of the bed, Em kneeling on the floor between his spread legs.

Arthur pressed a thumb in and ran it around the perimeter of the pot, collecting a thick smear of glistening balm. He waited while Em carefully replaced the lid and slid the disk back into his pocket.

Arthur felt breathless and shivery, and it was nothing to do with the temperature of the air on his naked skin. It was more the fact that he was nude while Em was still fully clothed—he hadn't even removed his trainers—and the fact that he had one of his own jockstraps stuffed in his mouth. The fabric pouch and part of the waistband were wadded into a tight ball on his tongue, while the elastic straps dangled down his chin.

"Just give me the signal and I'll pull," Em had said, stroking the stretched edges of Arthur's mouth, "but you can also work it out with your tongue, if you need to."

Arthur had nodded, had started to say, "Thanks, but I won't," then laughed through his nose when he realised that _this_ was exactly why they were doing this—because he couldn’t just shut up and relax.

After all the waiting and wanting, Arthur had tripped over his own tongue, alternately bossy and pleading, saying horribly daft things he'd probably picked up from porn videos and generally spoiling the mood. And while Em had assured Arthur that Gwaine would ring him the instant Gareth looked like he was getting an itchy bum, they didn't really know how much time they had.

Being gagged, being told exactly what to do, felt much better—safer somehow. And Arthur couldn't deny that the way Em was looking at him now, like he was the only thing worth clapping eyes on in the whole universe, more than made up for being ignored at dinner.

Em placed his hands on Arthur's thighs and tilted his chin up, parting his lips.

"Go on."

Arthur touched his coated thumb to the fullest part of Em's lower lip. Em's eyes fluttered closed, then opened wide again, and Arthur sucked a shallow breath in through his nose.

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, staring at one another. Arthur's cock leaked. His mouth watered, the gag becoming steadily more saturated.

With a muffled groan, Arthur pressed down, smearing the gloss across Em's lips. He painted each dip and curve, pressing a little harder than was strictly necessary, just to see the plump flesh give way, then spring up again in the wake of his touch. Em held still, allowing Arthur to go on stroking his mouth long after he'd made a slick mess of Em's lips.

Despite his gag, Arthur was making needy noises in his throat. He realised that he'd inched forward on the mattress too, his cock one solid thrust away from hitting Em in the face. Embarrassed, he scooted back, snugging his cock against his belly. He tried to convey his apology with his eyes.

"Hmm, now that's done, I'm not sure you can be trusted with your hands, either," Em said.

Arthur tilted his head. "Ngh?"

"If I leave you like this, you'll be flailing about, won't you? Pulling my hair, ruining my rhythm, making a mess of the duvet."

Arthur shrugged. Em had a point.

"Shall I bind them for you? Shake your head yes or no."

Arthur hesitated only an instant before nodding. Em rose gracefully and, with a serene smile, headed for the wardrobe.

Arthur flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude—not the humble kind that meant favours owed, but more of an awed giddiness. This was fucking _amazing._

When Em returned, he had Arthur's club tie dangling from one long finger. Arthur raised his eyebrows, but he nodded again, letting Em position him further up the bed, reclining against a mound of pillows while his wrists were bound to one of the convenient slats in the headboard.

From then on, it was nothing but unrestrained bliss: Em's relentless tongue on his nipples, stroking and worrying at the flesh until Arthur was twisting his torso in anticipation when Em abandoned one, trying to get him to immediately take up the other; Em's palms smoothing over his stomach and thighs, pressing him into the mattress, skimming down and around, always _just_ missing his eager cock and making him whimper into his gag; Em's wicked fingers pinching the skin behind his sac and brushing over his entrance, but going no further; Em's gorgeous mouth—at last—swallowing him down, but only a couple of inches, leaving Arthur bucking against his restraints until he realised that Em was waiting for him to be still.

Then it was another round of teasing all over again—nipples and belly and perineum and thighs—wet kisses and insistent fingers showing Arthur over and over how clueless he was, and how perfect, taking everything away but the pleasure.

Just when Arthur had convinced himself that he didn't really mind if his cock had to sit this one out, Em buried his face between Arthur's legs. All that attention was suddenly focused on Arthur's cock and balls and arse, Em's mouth and fingers working until Arthur could no longer distinguish one type of pleasure from the next, and everything between his thighs became one giant erogenous zone under constant, exquisite attack.

It was so exquisite that, when he came, it almost felt like a letdown. Almost.

Arthur's first instinct, when Em finally loosed his hands and pulled the sodden jockstrap from his mouth, was to curl round Em's lanky frame, burrowing up under his shirt into the soft skin of his belly. His lips were numb. His tongue and throat felt rough, and he'd been drooling, but all he could think about was getting closer.

Mumbling hoarse endearments, Arthur groped for Em's crotch, his half-a-remaining-brain reasoning that he should reciprocate. Em eased his hand away, but not before Arthur registered the open fly and the damp, sated flesh within. 

"No need," Em said, stroking Arthur's back. "Sorry, Grompet. You have no idea how fucking hot you look writhing about, literally gagging trying to get a little more of your cock in my mouth."

Arthur groaned into Em's stomach. "Fuck, Em, how're we going to do this?"

"We trust each other," Em said. "And you tell me, next time, before you get this stupid. We'll work something out, even if it's just over the phone."

"Uh, about that..."

Em chuckled. "Yeah, it'd be better if I was in on it. I can't believe you wanked to me talking about getting tickets for Gwen and her mates. If she knew, I don’t know whether she'd be flattered or scarred for life."

Arthur dragged himself away and sat back on his haunches. "Don’t you dare tell her. Or Elyan. He'd probably have me castrated."

"Hmm. Definitely do not want," Em said, wiping himself off on Arthur's erstwhile gag. He chucked it playfully at Arthur's chest, then did up his fly. "I am a card-carrying member of FOTS, after all."

"Fots?"

"Friends of the Scrotum."

Arthur chuckled. His throat still felt scratchy. "I'd like to see that card."

Em grinned. "It's hilarious. Will made it for me when we were in Year Seven. I'll see if I can find it next time you're at mine."

"Hey, uh... can that be sooner rather that later?"

"I think it had better. I don't fancy being blamed for a slump in your form." Eyes sparkling, Em reached out and brushed his fingertips over Arthur's mouth. "Hmm, your poor lips are all chapped." He pulled out the lip gloss and slipped it into Arthur's hand. "Here, take this."

Arthur clutched it. "And just how do I explain to the lads that I need to lock myself in the toilet to put on a bit of lippie?" He knew he would never be able to use it without becoming aroused.

Em smiled. He stroked Arthur's face with the back of his hand, then shuffled closer and pulled him in for a kiss.

"Seriously though. You be brilliant tomorrow, alright? Whatever happens with us, I really don't want to fuck that up, Arthur, because I _love_ watching you play and I..." Em exhaled and closed his eyes, nudging his face alongside Arthur's. "Well, let's just say I'm more than a casual fan."

Arthur smiled against Em's cheek. "I know," he said. "Thank you."


	25. Away End

Home or away, Arthur had always enjoyed the pre-match dressing room: shedding street clothes and donning kit amidst a flurry of wisecracks; water bottles and rolls of tape being tossed back and forth; the clashing smells of liniment, hair gel, and aftershave; and the relentless beat of whatever music had been chosen by that week's DJ.

It should have been Lance's turn, but Leon was still narked at him over the gypsy jazz and Spanish guitar numbers that, while lovely, did not arouse the necessary bloodlust, so Elyan was in control. He'd put on a dancehall remix of Jimmy Cliff's "You Can Get It If You Really Want," and was attempting to show Percy how to dance with his knees and hips, rather than just hopping up and down—with predictably hilarious results. He looked like he was doing very erratic squat thrusts.

Gwaine was actually in tears, he was laughing so hard, and several of the other lads weren't much better off. Arthur, too, was chuckling as he bent over to tape his socks. Then he caught sight of the marks on his wrists; his laugh stuttered and quieted to a private grin.

He'd been amazed earlier to discover that, despite the ardour of his attentions, Em hadn't left a mark on him. The skin around his nipples had been a little inflamed, but it had faded by morning. The only lingering effects were Arthur's chapped lips—much better now thanks to his having worn the lip gloss overnight—and the chafe-marks he'd given himself while struggling against his restraints. Those would heal. His tie, on the other hand, would probably never be the same. The weave had been stretched beyond all repair in a couple of places, and the embroidered crest hadn't survived the sharp edges of the wooden slats. The fearsome dragon's belly was now a frayed mess of gold thread.

Arthur looked up and caught a glimpse of Em in the adjoining treatment room, rolling Lemmie's foot this way and that between his palms with an intent look on his face. When he glanced out into the dressing room, Arthur held his gaze. In a fit of boldness, he pulled a strip of tape taut and tore it off with his teeth.

It was gratifying to see the way Em's eyes widened, just a fraction, before he flashed Arthur a slightly crazed smile and ducked his head back to his task.

Soon Arthur was laughing once more, trading innuendos with Gwaine about who'd had their oats that morning and teasing some of the other lads about losing all their pillow mints to a mere babe like Gareth. Somehow he ended up agreeing to go halves with Kay on bottle service for the whole squad at The Mill later if they pulled off a win.

Just before they lined up in the tunnel, Leon palmed Arthur's neck and brought their foreheads together, saying, "Nice to have you back, Wart. Let's go slay us some fucking giants."

* * *

Camelot had come prepared for a number of different match scenarios. Then the whistle blew, and forty seconds later they'd had to chuck all their plans out the window.

For all their efforts studying footage of Albion's likely first eleven, they had not been fully prepared for the twelfth man: Albion's new stadium. The Cliffs was a massive cauldron, its uppermost tiers looming in towards the pitch, trapping and amplifying the sounds of the crowd. They'd had a taste of it during the warm-up, but at capacity it was deafening. Arthur could barely hear Leon when he was ten yards away, let alone Percy's bellowing from the backfield and Coach's shouts from touch.

Albion took advantage of Camelot's momentary distraction. They quickly thrust forward, players swapping sides and creating confusion in the defence. Their back line was pierced with embarrassing ease. Kay came out to close the attacker down, but Albion's number nine kept his head on his shoulders and coolly passed to his strike partner for a tap-in.

The home crowd, tier upon tier of white replica-shirted fans who'd only just sat down, rose to their feet with a renewed roar, and Arthur felt like he'd been knocked out before the fight had even begun.

Then Camelot's training kicked in, along with whatever stubborn impulse drove downed combatants to get up and fight even harder, and everything became a furious blur.

They contested every ball, tracked every run. They kept their heads up and tried to anticipate one another's movements, as their calls were being lost in the wall of sound. With every minute that passed, every ball won, the tide began to shift. The White Giants saw that Camelot would not be taken easily, and they began to sweat.

Then, at the close of the half, the tide turned completely.

After a bout of head-tennis in midfield, Arthur found himself with the ball and a clear channel down the right wing. Gwaine, having tracked back earlier to support Gareth, was never going to get there, so Arthur took it himself, drawing the left back out wide, then pivoting and cutting in towards the 18-yard box.

He had his eyes on goal, calculating distance and angle—for an instant he could almost taste the shot—then there were two white shirts closing him down, a cage of flying elbows and jabbing boots, and he was reduced to shielding as best he could until he saw Myror screaming and gesturing for him to pass.

He passed. The next thing he knew, Myror was capering in front of goal, kissing his ring finger and pumping a fist in the air; Albion's keeper, a typically smug bastard called Borden, was fuming. The Cliffs went blissfully silent, except at the far end, where the Camelot travelling support were seated. 

Arthur jogged over to congratulate Myror. Leon had enforced a truce of sorts at training, but things had still been awkward between them all week. He put out a hand, but Myror laughed and slung an arm around Arthur's shoulder, pulling him in for a half-hug and knuckling him roughly on the top of his head.

"That's how it's done, Wart. That's how it's done," he crowed. "Who're they looking at now?"

Arthur resisted rolling his eyes. "You, oh mighty Assassin," he said, ducking out of Myror's grip.

"That's motherfucking _right._ And there's more where that came from, too. Just you watch and learn. And keep getting me the ball."

* * *

The second half was a whole different story, and even Arthur, who ended the day with two more assists, plus an absolute peach of a goal, could admit that Elyan had been the man to write it.

Coach had, after much discussion, made the bold decision to sub him on at the half, rather than save him for a 75th minute run-out. As hoped, Albion hadn't quite known what to make of him.

All the pundits' speculation had been that Elyan wasn't fully back up to speed, but Albion couldn't afford to take that chance. At first, all he'd had to do was trot around and get himself in likely places, and they'd had no choice but to mark him. He and Gwaine hugged the touchlines, stretching the defence; Arthur and Myror were able to maraud freely up the middle. 

Then, just when Albion had decided to called Elyan's bluff and pull back into a tight shape, he had shown them what CFC already knew: that even a less-than-match-fit Elyan Thomas was far too fucking fast for anyone to catch.

Again and again, Arthur watched Albion's right back try and take Elyan on. Again and again, Elyan found that extra gear and just blew past the poor sod, leaving him red-faced and puffing. Exhausted, and probably desperate, he resorted to fouling.

There was no need to discuss who would take the resulting free kick. Even Myror, who was clearly itching to seal his hat trick, backed away. Elyan contemplated the ball for a moment, then stepped up and struck it—simply and perfectly—lofting it over the wall and sending it screaming into the top left corner.

The away end erupted, a joyous red wedge in a sea of despondent white, singing "E-L-Y-A-N" to the tune of "There Was A Farmer." It was Camelot's fifth—and as it turned out, final—goal, and it transformed what would have been a brilliant result into a genuine rout.

In the celebratory melee that followed, Arthur glimpsed many of their fans waving banners bearing Elyan's number alongside anti-racist slogans. There were a few generic anti-homophobia ones as well, which Arthur regarded with defiant glee. He hoped Hector—who had warned him that Elyan's return would bring renewed media attention to the events surrounding his injury, and that he needed to be careful in his pre- and post-match interviews—was watching.

Gwen and her mates, seated in the VIP tier, unfurled a massive hand-sewn red and gold banner with quilted piecework letters spelling out, "Welcome Back, Sir Speed-E."

Elyan shook his head, grinning.

"Em _tried_ explaining that most people just dab some paint on a sheet," Arthur said, pulling Elyan to his feet, "but she'd have none of it."

"Course not. My sister is an _artisan,_ mate."

"You sister made that? Brilliant." Lance panted, cupping a hand to his brow and squinting up. "Which one is she anyway?"

"The ugly one, with a rack full of sharp weapons at home," Elyan deadpanned, leaving a puzzled-looking Lance in his wake as he jogged over to swap shirts with the poor sod tasked with marking him.

Arthur leaned in and pointed out the woman he recognised from the pictures Em had shown him. "Just there, in the coat with all the pom-poms on."

"Oh, she's... wow. Elyan, you _liar."_

Arthur watched with amusement as Lance straightened up, unconsciously pulling his shoulders back and combing a hand through his hair.

"He was telling the truth about the swords though," Arthur warned, lifting a hand as he spotted Freya and whatever-her-name-was from the previous weekend. "But go on, whip off your shirt and give her a proper eyeful, I dare you."

Arthur was suddenly blindsided by Gwaine, who dragged him a few yards away, grabbed his face and gave him a big, sloppy kiss. It landed half on his mouth and half on his chin, with a sweaty ponytail whipping his cheek.

"That's from your fella over there," he said with a wink, then ducked away before Arthur could smack him, calling to the fans, "Who's next, ladies? Give your hardworking winger some luuurve!"

Arthur looked around. He finally saw Em eyeing him from the tunnel entrance, where he was trapped in a knot of other physios and coaching staff. Smirking, Em shrugged, then kept an impressively straight face as Arthur elaborately pantomimed spitting and wiping off his tongue with the back of his hand.

* * *

The plane trip back to Camelot was also a blur, but that was mostly due to the champagne, which flowed freely.

Once they were allowed to move about the cabin, the squad began socialising, swapping seats and congregating in the aisles, much to the chagrin of the crew. Arthur returned from the loo to find Kay in his seat, attempting to lead a singsong of "We Are the Dragons." He wasn't bothered though, as this left the seat across the aisle from Em conveniently free. He might not be able to publicly claim Em as his boyfriend, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lurk nearby, shielding him from overly friendly flight attendants.

Arthur was just easing into the seat when the captain came on to update them, as requested, on the results of the evening's FA Cup draw.

The third round was the one in which the top tier clubs finally entered the tournament, and everyone was eager to find out whether they'd be facing some scrappy lower-league side or a current rival. A number of the squad fancied drawing Mercia, just for an added opportunity to shame CFC's sworn enemy, while others hoped to come up against former clubs or former clubs' rivals, depending on how happy they'd been with their previous employers.

When it was announced that Camelot had been drawn away at Western Isles, there was a moment of silence.

"Oh, hell no," Arthur said, staring at Em in dismay.

"Hell _yes,"_ Elyan announced, standing. "Pardon my French, but I did not spend over a month in a fucking wheel clamp just to run away next time I saw the bastard who did it. This game we played today, this quality shit? I would be _more_ than happy to take it to High Croft and personally shove it down each and every one of their bigoted throats. Who's with me?"

The back half of the plane erupted in cheers.

Arthur twisted around in his seat. "Who's going in for causes now, E?"

Elyan grinned down at him. "Sorry, mate, I can’t let your pasty white arse have all the fun."

Em laughed, snorting champagne out his nose. "Sorry, sorry," he said, mopping his face on his sleeve. "But you sound just like Gwen. I swear she said the exact same thing when some geezer gave her stick about joining the Elite Twentieth."

"She's in the Elite Twentieth?" Lance said, peering round the back of his seat. "I saw them do the battle of Caer Caradoc a few years back, at Wessex Warfest. Brilliant testudo formation. _Woad and Steel_ named them top re-enactment society for—what? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

And then, amidst sniggers and headshakes from those within earshot, it was Elyan's turn to mutter, "Oh, hell no," and stare at Em in dismay.

Em grinned, shrugged, and handed over the open bottle of champagne.

* * *

Most of the squad was mildly squiffy by the time the plane landed. Em, who did not do well with champagne, and apparently _really_ didn’t do well with champagne at altitude, was certifiably wobbly. Arthur made sure he stuck close as they disembarked and trudged through the terminal, one hand hovering near Em's lower back.

They were nearly at the security cordon when he heard a familiar voice rising above the general hubbub. He instinctively whipped his hand away.

What was his father doing here? He wasn't usually one to meet an away-day coach or returning flight. Either something was wrong, or battering Albion meant more to Uther than Arthur had ever suspected.

Clenching his jaw, Arthur reached back out and slung his arm around Em's shoulders, as mates do after a night out on the lash. Hell, Lemmie and Geraint were in much the same position, and Kay, in typical octopus fashion, had draped himself between his two hulking centre backs.

Em looked over in pink-cheeked, sleepy-eyed surprise, clearly oblivious to Arthur's inner turmoil.

"Hey there, sail—um, mate," he said, smiling. "You going straight on to The Mill, or could you drop…" Em blinked.

"Drop what?"

"Oh, Arthur, that's… shite, _your tie."_

They'd arrived at the security cordon by then, and Em looked to Uther and back, eyes opening wide with horror.

"Was that really the only one you brought?" he said in a panicked whisper, trying to pull away.

Arthur smiled brightly and dug his fingers into Em's shoulder. "Yep," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "Now promise me that if I let go you will not leave my side. Okay?"

Em hiccupped.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Uther was waiting on the other side of the cordon. Arrayed alongside him were members of the board, photojournalists, and a bevy of the attractive female assistants Morgana cheerfully referred to as Hired Tits.

Arthur waited until his father caught sight of him, then casually dropped his arm, feigning pleased surprise. He nodded. After a beat, his father nodded back.

As soon as the entire squad was past the barriers, the assembled company began applauding and the photojournalists started snapping away.

"I'll not keep you long from your celebrations," Uther said, holding his hands up for silence. "I've had word The Mill, as well as the lovely young creatures who adorn it, have been put on red alert."

There was a burst of laughter that ended nearly as soon as it began. No one was ever entirely comfortable laughing around Uther Pendragon. Ever the good Englishman, he had a dry wit to begin with, but it was more that his smiles rarely reached his eyes, and that the larger his smiles were, the more predatory he looked. Or so Arthur thought.

These days, seeing his father in person was disorienting. Arthur was used to seeing him either from afar, on television, or in the decade-old stock photos used in club publications. He never quite recalled his father's actual height, nor the shade of skin without studio makeup. He had trouble remembering if his face had been fuller last he'd seen him, or leaner, and wondered just when his hair had gone completely grey.

"However, the club wish to extend our congratulations, not only on the fine job you did today, but also on all the hard work you've put in this past week. Well done, lads, well done." Uther brought his hands together and applauded once more, nodding at those players nearest him.

Arthur dug his fingernails into his palms. His father's penchant for using "the club" in the manner of the royal "we" had always grated on his nerves.

"The club would especially like to congratulate young Thomas here on his excellent recovery—son, the look of terror on that fullback's face when you came onto the pitch tonight was priceless; would that we could have it framed." There was a titter from Uther's ensemble. He offered his hand to Elyan, who'd been shuffled to the fore of the pack by his teammates.

Elyan shook Uther's hand, saying, "Thank you sir. I had a lot of help, on the pitch and off."

"Yes, indeed," Uther exclaimed, releasing Elyan's hand and lifting his gaze. "Mister Emmett, is it? Please step forward."

Arthur felt Em stiffen at his side. He kept his eyes front, but he reached out and brushed his fingers against the back of Em's hand.

One of the Hired Tits whispered something in Uther's ear.

"Ah. Mister Emrys, that is." He looked around expectantly.

Em shook himself, gave another tiny hiccup, and eased his way through the throng until he was standing beside Elyan.

"That's me," he said, giving a little wave. "Emmett Emrys. Hello, Mister Pendragon."

Uther gave Em an appraising look. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the toes of his shoes, unable to bear watching his father coolly taking the measure of someone he prized so highly.

"Doctor Tally tells me you've been largely responsible for our excellent injury recovery times these past few months."

"Well, I—"

"In fact, he recommended we buy out all those pesky clauses in your contract as soon as possible, get you working for Camelot exclusively."

Arthur's head snapped up at this.

"Uh..." Em said, swaying a little from side to side.

Uther laughed. It was a barking, discomfiting sound. He clapped Em on the shoulders—Arthur had a sudden, violent urge to shove him away—and looked over at Coach.

"We've heard the same from Coach here, but not to worry, son, we're not putting you on the spot just yet. We merely want to convey our gratitude for keeping the men fighting fit, as it were. Camelot appreciates your talents."

"Oh. Cheers." Once he'd been released, Em stood uncertainly in Uther's physical space, fidgeting.

Arthur ached for Em, knowing his father had already forgot him and was mentally rehearsing his next words. He couldn’t very well push his way through the ranks and retrieve him without being conspicuous though.

Fortunately, Gwaine was nearby. He elbowed Percy, who nudged Elyan, and between them they managed to draw Em back into the fold before things became too awkward.

Uther went into the rat-a-tat-tat part of his speech, rapidly listing off additional honours, bullet-point style—Coach and Myror, and Leon, of course, as captain. Kay got a backhanded compliment about his reflexes and Percy a dry, "Solid, as ever," that had several of the journos sniggering into their multi-pocketed vests.

Then came the inspiring close, the (supposedly) beneficent smile, and the (actually quite welcome) announcement that they were being given time off—that "the club" didn't want any of the squad in for training until Tuesday afternoon. A genuine cheer went up at that, and Arthur stooped to retrieve his overnight bag.

"What about the Wa—I mean, Arthur, sir?"

Arthur froze. It was Percy's voice, loud and genuinely puzzled.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Uther, who'd already turned away, mobile pressed to his ear, paused.

Arthur straightened up. Frowning, his father passed his eyes over him. "Yes, yes, well done, Arthur," he said. "But for God's sake get yourself a new tie, son. That one is a disgrace. You are meant to be representing a global brand here, after all, and I know for a fact we're paying you well enough." There was another burst of awkward laughter, then Uther was striding away, surrounded by his minions.

Arthur plastered a smile on his face. "To The Mill," he said firmly.

"To The Mill!" Kay bellowed, nodding at Arthur.

Once the cry had been taken up by the rest of the squad, Arthur shouldered his bag and made his way towards Em. He knew Em had no interest in an alcohol-fuelled frolic at The Mill, and that Will was expecting him back for a lads' night of their own. But Arthur was fully prepared to beg, because he _also_ knew that the only two things that would get him through the night were large quantities of alcohol and the knowledge that Em would be in his bed come morning.


	26. Hospitality Package

Begging wasn't Arthur's strongest subject (outside the bedroom, at any rate).

Despite his best intentions, all his requests—"Break your plans with Will; come out with me instead; dammit, Em, we should talk about this"—had sounded more like orders, and adding "please" had only upped the petulance factor. The fact that this had all happened in side-mouth whispers as the squad walked through the airport, being cheered and goggled at, hadn't helped.

Fortunately for Arthur, Em had sensed the genuine need beneath the bluster and whinge (or perhaps it was just that the champagne and the stress of meeting Uther had weakened his resolve). His protests had grown more and more perfunctory until, as they queued to board the team coach, he'd leaned forward, poked Arthur in the ribs, and announced that he was prepared to grant him a compromise. 

Compromise wasn't Arthur's strongest subject either (with football, he was used to either taking charge or taking direction, and 50-50 balls were there to be won, not negotiated over), but Em had said it was compromise or nothing and that, yes, he was fully aware how fucked up that sounded, but if Arthur didn't like it he could go stick his head under the bus.

Now, waking to a tantalising smell wafting in from the kitchen, Arthur was inclined to cut compromise some slack. His mouth was dry and his head felt rough, but there was a bottle of Lucozade Sport sitting on the nightstand. His aviators were perched there as well, and the smell wafting in from the kitchen smelled an awful lot like bacon. 

Arthur closed his eyes again and stretched lazily beneath the duvet, twisting his spine and circling his ankles. Yes, this whole compromise thing wasn't half bad.

Last night, Em hadn't wanted to go to The Mill and Arthur hadn't wanted Em to go home, so Em had suggested Arthur drop him at the flat. Arthur had never left anyone alone in his flat before, but then he'd never had anyone _to_ leave alone. He'd found he rather liked the idea of Em relaxing at his flat, maybe sprawled on the sofa watching telly or messing with his gaming equipment. Maybe fixing himself a sandwich, snooping in cupboards, or napping on Arthur's bed.

At The Mill, as the bottles had gone round and the company had grown wilder, Arthur had clung to these images. To the thought that, for once, he had someone to go home to.

When a staggering Leon and an equally legless Gwaine had delivered Arthur to his door, Em had been there to help him with all the devious things like zips and buttons and pieces of furniture that suddenly lunged at his shins. He'd made sure Arthur didn't drown in the bath, piss into the rubbish can, or gargle with aftershave. And then he'd taken him to bed.

It had all been frustratingly platonic, apart from a bit of pawing and an attempted snog (Arthur remembered the shiver of Em's laugh in his ear, warm lips whispering something about impaired motor functions), but it had still been nicer than passing out alone.

Arthur rolled over, snagging the pillow beside his own and burying his face in the Em-scented indent.

"Shall I come back later?"

"Ungh?" Arthur lifted his head. Em was peering in at the door, Arthur's bar-towel apron draped over one shoulder.

"Breakfast is nearly ready, but if you're keen on romancing that pillow, I can always put the bacon in the—"

"Wait, I don't have bacon. Where did you get bacon?" Arthur sat up, wincing as his head disagreed with the sudden move.

Em pushed the door all the way open. "Drink up," he said, nodding towards the nightstand.

"I went down to the lobby to get a paper and Mrs. Noble's nanny was... she needed," Em faltered as Arthur freed himself from the clutches of the duvet and crawled to the nightstand.

_"Christ,"_ Em said.

Arthur sat back on his heels and glugged the sports drink down.

"Um."

Arthur followed Em's gaze and realised that he was completely bare-arsed. And that his cock had taken half an interest in the Em-scented pillow. He tugged a corner of the duvet over his lap, vaguely remembered giving Em a hard time when he'd tried to get him into a pair of shorts.

"Wha—who's Mrs. Noble's nanny?" he said, looking around gingerly. He spotted the shorts hanging off one of the wall sconces and winced again. He had a feeling he'd flung them there. "Come to think of it, who's Mrs. Noble?"

"Ah, never you mind. Let's just say I have my ways." Em tore his gaze from Arthur's lower half. "Now get yourself decent, you brazen meat feast, before you make me burn the sausage."

"Thought you said bacon. I _smell_ bacon."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Bacon. Slip of the tongue." Smirking, Em backed out of the room.

* * *

By the time Arthur shuffled into the kitchen, there was a bowl of orange slices and a platter of toasties on the breakfast island, along with tea, coffee and a tall glass of water. 

The flat was awash in sunlight—because of _course_ the low December sky would decide to clear when he was hungover—and Arthur squinted as he clambered onto a stool. Even with sunglasses, it was pretty bright. He made a mental note to teach Em how to work the shades.

"Where's the bacon?"

Em nodded at the platter of toasties. "Inside. Bacon and jam—an Emrys morning-after specialty. Good for what ails you."

"What is it with you and toasties? Bacon is supposed to come with eggs and beans," Arthur groused, picking up one of the sandwich triangles. "And grilled tomato. Or mushrooms and sausage. Fried bre—mmpf. Fuck, Em, this _is_ good."

"I know," Em said, whipping off the towel and tossing it onto the nearby worktop. He plonked himself down opposite Arthur and took a sip of his tea. "Get a couple of those inside you, then we can talk about the _Gay Times_ cover."

Arthur chewed furiously, swallowed, and dropped the rest of the sandwich back onto the platter.

"What? _Gay Times_ what?"

"You. On the cover. With the rest of the first team. You said Kay and the lads thought it sounded aces, but you weren't sure you should do it. Too obvious."

"Gay... cover? Wait, you mean I—"

"Oh, fuck, Arthur, your _face,"_ Em broke in, reaching across the breakfast bar. "I can't do this. C'mere. You've got jam on your—yep, just there." Em licked his thumb and swiped it across the corner of Arthur's mouth. 

"You were having me on," Arthur said, stunned.

"Right in one, genius. Payback for all the shite you pulled last night."

"I don't recall any shite," Arthur protested. But he knew, even as he said it, that it was a weak argument; his memories of the previous evening were spotty at best.

Em smiled indulgently. Arthur tried to tell himself that it was irritating.

"How much _do_ you remember?"

Arthur snatched the remainder of the toastie triangle and stuffed it into his mouth to buy himself some time. He followed it with a scalding swill of coffee, then cooled his mouth by biting savagely into an orange slice.

Em tilted his head, indulgent smile still in full force. "Shall I tell you? I promise I won't piss you about again."

"Oh, for fuck's... fine," Arthur said, slapping the orange rind down onto the sheet of kitchen roll Em had provided as a napkin. "Go on then."

"Well." Em took a bite of his own sandwich and chewed slowly, making a face Arthur thought completely inappropriate for the breakfast table. He swallowed, wiped his lips and propped his elbows on the worktop.

"Myror kept trying to get you to cop off with various wagabees so he could observe vicariously, and you kind of lost it. It's the first coming out I've heard of that was inspired by sheer annoyance, so well done you." 

"I came out to Myror? Oh, shit, I don't—"

Arthur tried, but he couldn't remember what he'd said. He remembered getting annoyed though, remembered feeling too warm and too drunk, yet not drunk enough to find anything remotely funny about being mauled by scantily-clad, spray-tanned strangers.

The Mill's VIP room had buttery black leather banquette and glasses that never ran dry. All Arthur had wanted to do was lean back, sink into a snug haze of ale and brandy and listen to Kay tell outrageous stories, but some of the lads had been keen on inviting women up off the packed dance floor. He'd been shuffled along the banquette, driven into a corner next to Myror and his persistent scheming. After that everything was a blur.

"Don't remember," Arthur said gruffly. "How'd he take it?"

"Dunno, you just said it was awkward. But you didn't mention him running screaming into the night and your face is in perfect order, so it can't have been too dire." Em tapped the back of Arthur's hand. "Percy was there as well, when you went off on Myror, but you're not sure the penny dropped. Either that or he's been leading a secret life."

"What?"

"Well, he told you he feels the same way. That he wishes _all_ the lads were like you. Seemed to think your preferring the company of men had more to do with, and I quote, 'Bros before hos, _dude,_ shirts before skirts, and Camelot over all.' I wasn't sure if you were going for East Coast gangster or West Coast stoner there, by the way, so you'll need to work on your accents if you're planning a second career in film." Em sat back, lips twitching, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Want to hear the rest?" 

Cheeks flaming, Arthur stuffed another toastie in his mouth and gestured for Em to continue. He thought it best to fortify himself.

"Leon is the brother you never had and always wanted. Gareth invited you round for tea at his mam's, and you're hosting some sort of gaming tournament here tomorrow. For the whole squad."

Arthur nearly choked on his mouthful. "Heah?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Don't worry, I'll help you hide the kinky tat before I go. You _also_ said that you're jealous of Lance's abs, The Mill should be sanctioned for not stocking your favourite flavour crisps, and Kay is unnaturally interested in the details of our sex life."

Em leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Apparently he'd be shocked to hear that, 'you think you're really more of an eager bottom, but you haven't had enough actual experience to make an official call,' which was a difficult thing to hear when I was trying to be noble and just get you to bed without you choking on your own tongue."

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling sheepish. "Um."

"Oh, and water is wet, lights are bright, you bet I'd look good on the dance floor, and I'm fit but my gosh don't I just know it."

Arthur buried his head in his hands, groaning. When he had the courage to look up again, Em's eyebrows were all a-waggle.

"I didn't," Arthur said.

"Oh yes you did. You sang at me. Repeatedly. And poorly."

_"Fuck,"_ Arthur muttered.

"It was hard not to, to be honest. You were delightfully suggestible for a time there, not to mention belligerently nude, but I prefer my partners conscious."

"I'm horrible," Arthur muttered, but he let Em pull his hands away from his face and smooth them onto the granite.

"Nah," Em said, rubbing his thumbs over the marks on Arthur's wrists, "I've had far worse. Mind you, Will says you owe him for making me break plans."

"Owe him what?"

"Says he'll think of something."

Arthur didn't like the sound of that, but he did like the sight of Em's fingers. The tips were shiny with bacon grease. Arthur leaned forward and pressed his lips to one briefly before sucking it into his mouth.

"Mmm."

Em exhaled with a soft, "Ah," and shifted on his stool. 

Arthur looked up, peering over the rims of his aviators. He released Em's finger with a slow slide of his tongue. "So, can I get a redo on last night, or do you have more bad news?"

Em cleared his throat. His eyes were still focused on Arthur's mouth. "Oh. Um... well, judging by the number of times he rang your mobile last night, Hector's quite keen to speak with you, and I think your father might have called, but—"

"What?" Arthur said, clutching Em's hand.

He shrugged, reluctantly pulling away. "Sorry, but I—well, I switched the ringer off. Thought it best, given the state you were in."

Arthur slid off the stool and stalked round the breakfast bar. Em's eyes went comically wide as Arthur swooped down, but he allowed himself to be pulled up and furled into a close embrace. He smelled like bacon and oranges, with a lingering remnant of aftershave. His skin felt blessedly cool against Arthur's flushed face.

Arthur mashed his lips to the shell of his ear and said, "Fuck Hector. Hector can wait. And so can my father." He pulled back just enough to nuzzle a kiss on Em's jaw and added, "And you're bloody brilliant—six shades of. Now come back to bed. Please."

"Most sensible thing you've said in the last twelve hours." Em wormed his arms free and cradled Arthur's face, gently removing his sunglasses. Arthur whined and squeezed his eyes shut. "But you seem to be nursing quite the hangover. I'm not sure it's—"

"Oh, come on, Emrys," Arthur cut in, butting his head against Em's shoulder. "I know you're dying to give me a sore bottom to match the state of my head."

* * *

For Arthur, the final weeks of December were unusually social and, for the most part, exceedingly pleasant. CFC were riding high after their big win, and there was a heightened sense of camaraderie amongst the first team that shone through, not only on the pitch, but in the open training sessions and numerous charity events the club packed in round the holidays.

Even hospital visits, which had always filled Arthur with a guilty dread, became bearable thanks to Gwaine's antics in Gilli's mascot suit and some sage advice from Em.

"Just relax," he'd said after Arthur confessed his terror of the children's cancer ward. Arthur had been helping Em study for a refresher course in kinesiology at the time, which involved standing in the middle of the living room in his briefs, obeying one movement command after another as Em prowled round him with a critical eye.

"They don't need your sympathy, Arthur, or your guilt. Trust me. I used to be a volunteer. All they want is to forget they're stuck in hospital." Em had paused, reaching out to brush his knuckles down Arthur's arm and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Go prance around like the mad pony you are, play some keepy-uppy, and pose for a few snaps. Give them a bit of banter and a bit of stick, just like you do with the boys at the academy. You'll be grand."

And he was. One tiny girl on the ward, swimming in her number nine replica shirt, turned out to have two dads. Arthur had no trouble keeping a genuine smile on his face around them, especially when he learned that one of the men was a member of the Dragonlords, CFC's most active supporters' group.

After Arthur signed the girl's shirt and perched on her bed for photos, he called a nurse over to take the camera and motioned both men to join them, insisting that they should have a picture of the entire family. This earned him a hearty backslap from the Dragonlord, a shy, "Cheers, mate," from his partner, and an Em-worthy grin from the girl.

He also suspected that it earned him the spectacular blowjob Em gave him in a lay-by off the M62, but Em denied it, claiming he didn't want to set any precedents regarding good gay deeds and sexual favors. There was no denying, however, that the timing—coming just after Arthur rang Hector to gleefully report that there were _too_ such things as gay Dragonlords—was suspicious.

* * *

Uther's treatment of Arthur at the airport and the subsequent piss-up at The Mill (not to mention Arthur giving over his flat to a day-long orgy of gaming) seemed to have put paid to any rumours that Arthur was aloof or, as Lemmie put it, "a bit of a toffee-nosed cunt." He received all sorts of invitations to hang out or grab a meal.

"You'd best watch yourself," Em teased one afternoon, eyeing Arthur's stomach as he slid into the ice bath after a long run. "A few more of Gareth's mam's pasties and you'll end up with a keg instead of a six-pack."

"What? This is nothing," Arthur shot back, teeth gritted against the sudden shock of cold. "Just you wait 'til the off season. Crisps and fry-ups and wheels and wheels of cheese. You will meet my true belly and _worship_ it, Emrys."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" Em said mildly, but the pink dotting his cheeks and the tips of his ears gave him away, and Arthur got a lot of good mileage out of mouthing, "Chub chaser," and rubbing his stomach suggestively whenever he caught Em watching him eat.

Those within the club who knew about Em and Arthur's relationship couldn't resist indulging in a bit of teasing as well—because apparently all footballers were twelve-year-olds at heart—but it was never intentionally cruel or indiscreet. It made Em roll his eyes and mutter under his breath, but Arthur didn't mind. In fact, he welcomed the subtle digs about his ruined tie and Em's "magic fingers," because they spoke of acceptance far more eloquently than any earnest words of support. 

Of those who knew Arthur was gay, only Myror occasionally struggled with what to say or where to put his eyes. On the pitch they were fine—they were being touted as one of the most exciting strike partnerships of the season—but there were some awkward moments in the dressing room. It all came to a head on date night, which Leon had thoughtfully suggested moving from The Kitchens to Morgana's flat so Em could attend.

Myror was clearly uncomfortable, barely acknowledging Em and sticking close to the wine. When, a few glasses in, Arthur confronted him, he said, "Look, Pendragon. I've got no problem with you, and whatever you do in your own home is your business, but this whole—I mean, blokes playing happy families with other blokes? Bit disgusting, that, and I don't fancy it being shoved in my face."

At which point Leon stepped in, Morgana let out an indignant "Oi!" worthy of a seasoned hooligan and Constance, livid, ordered her husband to go wait in the car. Arthur stalked off to the hall toilet, barely restraining himself from slamming the door.

He'd made a waxy wreckage of one of Morgana's decorative soaps and was working on a second when Em slipped in. Their eyes met in the mirror, and all the fight drained out of him.

"Hey," Em said, crowding in close behind him. He hooked his chin over Arthur's shoulder and insinuated his fingers into his belt-loops. "This may sound daft right now, but believe me, it's really nothing to do with you. He'll either get over it or he won't."

"I don't care if he gets over it! I care that he's being a complete and utter _wanker._ He sees us nearly every day at the club, and how many times have I sat across a table from him and Connie, and now he can't even bloody look at us else we'll put him off his dinner? What the fuck, Em?"

Em turned his face, hiding a smirk in the crook of Arthur's neck. 

"I'm not saying you can't get angry," he murmured. "Hell, I'd quite like to have pissed in his starter—only, when you're done killing the soaps, come join us for pudding, yeah?" He bit gently into the fleshy part of Arthur's ear. "I want to get back to playing happy families."

* * *

A few days later, Myror lad-apologised in the weight room, which meant he offered to spot Arthur and, several reps in, muttered something about "being out of order the other night."

Arthur wasn't fool enough to think this meant Myror was "over it," but it was a start, and Morgana reported that she and Constance were "working on him." This put Arthur in mind of torture scenes from spy thrillers and almost made him feel sorry for the man. Almost.

He could admit that, after years of being on the receiving end of his sister's fierceness, it was gratifying to finally have it employed on his behalf. Or perhaps it was more on Em's behalf, as the two of them were getting to be thick as thieves. Morgana had even given Em her private mobile number, for christ's sake, which made Arthur all kinds of nervous.

"You know, if you think about it, she's largely responsible for the whole Tuck Club fiasco," Arthur said one morning as Em worked on a tight spot in his lower back. "Her and Viv and fucking Gwaine."

"Oh, I know. She's making it up to us."

"Huh?"

Em paused, leaned down, and whispered, "Let's just say I've put in a few requests vis-à-vis the Christmas party."

"Really?"

"Indeed."

Arthur waited until Em resumed his ministrations before saying casually, "Naughty, or nice?"

Em chuckled. "Bit of both, mate. Bit of both. But just do as your sister says and I guarantee you'll have a good time."

"I'd better do," Arthur groused. "Because it's the only bloody holiday cheer I'm likely to get."

Em stilled his hand, but left it on Arthur's back. "Yeah, well, if you want to change that, my offer stands. I know you've this imaginary deadline for yourself, but maybe—"

"I _am_ telling him before the new year. End of story." Arthur lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder, but Em's head was bowed. All he could see was a thicket of dark hair and a pale slice of forehead. "Please, Em, you know I'd rather come home with you, but I need to do this. Now, before something happens, or changes, or... I just need him to know the truth, okay?" 

"Ssh. Maybe we shouldn't—yeah, now you're all tight again—let's not talk about it here."

They were silent for the rest of the session, and Em busied himself at the computer while Arthur pulled his Under Armour and warm-ups back on. But as Arthur reached for the door, Em stood.

"Wait, Arthur, I—" He gestured abruptly, face tense. "Here you are trying to be a big brave us and I'm only thinking about little us. I mean, about what _I_ wanted for us, just for the weekend and whatever. I'm sorry, okay. I'm such a fucking... I just..."

"Hey, stop. No need for that," Arthur said quietly. He nudged a toe against Em's foot, keeping it there until Em's hands stilled.

Arthur smirked and leaned back against the door. "I get it, Emrys. You were _totally_ counting on flashing my mint arse around the old street—breaking some hearts, twisting some knickers, showing the lads back home what you're pulling these days."

Em's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "What? I never—"

"It's alright, I understand," Arthur continued. "Pics or it didn't happen, yes? Shall I sign a pair of my pants and send them home with you? Or maybe I should autograph your—"

"Out!" Em cried, pointing. "Oh my god, out. Right fucking now, you deluded, arrogant slab." But he was laughing as he said it.


	27. The Chairman

The club's holiday party was traditionally held after the Boxing Day fixtures. It involved an afternoon of family-friendly fun at Knightswood, followed by a fancy-dress disco at the Royal Dragon Arms for the senior squad and their guests.

The latter event was always a favourite with the local paps, who hung about for hours, documenting the comings and goings, hoping for a glimpse of something more scandalous than a left back in a latex mask with his hand up a St. Trinian's skirt.

In the past Leon and Morgana had always played up the medieval theme, going as a knight and his lady. This year, however, Morgana had had other ideas—other ideas apparently influenced by Em. (Other ideas that, as soon as Arthur heard them, he was willing to bet had been cooked up over dirty martinis and most likely involved conversations he really didn't want to imagine Em having with his sister, even if she _had_ given him his very first sex toys.)

He'd given in without much of a fight though, because Em had told him to do as Morgana said, and apparently he really was a complete grompet where Em was concerned.

Friday night, still high off the penalty he'd scored against Mudchester, Arthur willingly submitted himself to the attentions of Morgana's assistants. He also submitted to a few of his sister's bracing, hideously-coloured cocktails, because they slayed the last of his inhibitions and made the whole ordeal seem less like torture. (He'd had club medicals where he'd been poked and prodded less, and he'd never had makeup on his _thighs_ before.)

He balked at the travel arrangements—the costume itself wasn't uncomfortable, but there wasn't nearly enough of it to be outside in, let alone in fucking _December_ —but Morgana insisted that a conspicuous entrance was a crucial part of the plan. So, silently apologising to his nethers, he downed the last of the teal sludge in his glass and resigned himself to shivering his way through the streets of Camelot.

* * *

Morgana, of course, knew exactly what she was talking about.

The paps were charmed by Em and Elena's spot-on Sid and Nancy, and they were amused by Leon appearing in lavender princess drag on the arm of a lurching, plate-armoured Lance. But when they caught sight of the hired horse and carriage bearing Arthur and Morgana, their jaws suffered collective drop.

Amidst a blaze of flash, the mythical twins Apollo and Artemis descended to the red carpet, loose white garments ruffling in the wind, leather sandal straps snaking up their bare calves, and skin glowing from a combination of the cold, metallic powder, and genuine bits of gold and silver leaf.

"People will be wanking to these for months," Morgana gloated, side-mouthed, as they posed for the cameras.

"Not if their tackle have gone into hibernation because _it's bloody freezing,"_ Arthur replied, smiling through gritted teeth. "How come my kit is so much shorter than yours?"

"Oh, hush, you big baby. I happen to know someone who is aching to warm you—ooh, whip out one of your arrows. I think I see the cretins from the _Daily Flail."_

"Fuck."

"Patience, twin. And that's Em's job." Morgana arched her back and shifted so one silvery leg was visible through the slit in her robes. "Now put on your god-face and flash some thigh. You've nothing to worry about. They can snap away all they like, but they'll have sod-all to write."

Draped to show off their respective physical assets, and with their contrasting colouring, Arthur and Morgana were, in her own words, an "irrefutable eyegasm." Yet, precisely because they _were_ siblings, because Morgana was a prominent businesswoman and her engagement to Leon was well-known, the tabloids were more or less hamstrung when it came to any real gossip. It was a provocative spectacle, surely, but also entirely innocent.

Well, _mostly_ innocent. Arthur wasn't sure that Morgana's cleavage could ever be classed as such, and the breeze cursed him with a few Marilyn Monroe moments.

When they turned to go inside, Morgana tossing one last coy smile over her shoulder, the air was still ringing with wolf whistles and cries of, "One more, luv. Over here, one more!"

Between ringing editors and solicitors and trying to cover the assorted pirates, gangsters, and tarts (both costumed and non-) trailing in and out of the hotel, no one noticed when, an hour later, Sid Vicious slipped out the service entrance _sans_ Nancy. He'd traded his leather jacket for a hooded puffa coat and was accompanied by a husky woman in a mac and headscarf.

"Jaysusfuck, you golden bloody tease, I am going to eat your arse with a _spoon,"_ he hissed as he bundled his companion into a waiting Merc saloon car.

"Not on this upholstery, you're not," warned the driver, before turning and giving the pair a gap-toothed smile over her shoulder. "Hello lovebirds."

It took Arthur a moment to recognise Freya's lady friend—Helga? Helena? No, _Helen_ —in her chauffeur's uniform. Em greeted her warmly, leaning over the seats to buss her cheek. Arthur settled for lifting a hand and mumbling hello, feeling a prize idiot as her eyes roved over his get-up.

She chuckled as she turned back round. "Seatbelts, please. I'll have you there in three shakes. And seriously—no man juices on my champagne leather."

* * *

The following night, Tintagel House was packed to the rafters for Uther's private holiday bash. Arthur shifted restlessly, twisting his lower spine as he tried to keep his attention focused on what Hector was saying. It wasn't easy. The great hall was a riot of conversation, and there were fairy lights _everywhere,_ the erratic blinky kind, which wreaked havoc with his concentration. It was like being stalked by hordes of wee paparazzi.

"All I'm saying is think about it, son. There are some definite opportunities here, but it never does to spread oneself too thin."

Arthur couldn't help the startled laugh that escaped him, nor the sudden rush of blood that warmed his cheeks and made him sweat beneath his dinner jacket. He hoped Hector would put it down to the brandy he'd been nursing for the past hour, or the general fug of booze and opulence that pervaded his father's parties.

Because while his agent's idea of being "spread thin" no doubt involved decisions about corporate sponsorships—Hengroen Motors had sweetened their deal, and some upstart European razor brand had started coming in with serious offers—Arthur's mind had immediately jumped to the night previous, to what had happened after Helen had dropped Sid Vicious and his definitely-not-Nancy back at Arthur's flat.

He'd been spread all right, all over his own dining room table.

"Have a piss and wash up belowdecks," Em had said, peeling off Arthur's outer disguise. "But don't you dare remove a single stitch of your costume." He'd brushed a wondering fingertip across the gold leaf pasted to Arthur's exposed right nipple, then gripped the cord at his waist, tugging him in for a hungry kiss. "Once you're back out here, I don't want to hear anything out of you but 'Fuckyeah' and 'Please.' Or else 'Hold,' in which case I will stop whatever I'm doing and check in. Alright?"

The memory caused Arthur's lips to spread in a broad, no doubt crazed-looking smile. He took a sip of his drink to hide it, inhaling a beakful of brandy fumes. "Will do, Hec," he said, eyes watering. "I'm happy with what I'm driving at the moment, but that, ah, razor thing sounds promising. A man can always use a closer shave, right?"

The night before, Arthur had emerged from his room to find Em touching up _his_ shave over the kitchen sink. He'd removed his tattered T-shirt and the padlock and chain. Between the angry bristle on his head and the fiercely clinging black jeans, there had been nothing but a pale expanse of bare, knowable skin, shy pink nipples and inviting wisps of dark hair.

Arthur had had a sudden urge to say, "Hold," to call off the game before it began. He'd wanted to drag Em into the bath—strip him, wash him, then lay him out on the bed so he could just _look_ for as long as he liked.

Then Em had turned to Arthur, low-slung belt jangling with all kinds of promising-looking hardware, and said, "Trust me, you don't want beard burn where I'm going," and Arthur's thoughts had skidded to a halt.

Em had smiled warmly—an appealing crack in his punk armour—and added, "Dining room table, gorgeous. Make yourself comfy. Facedown."

Arthur had turned on one sandal-clad heel and gone through to the dining room without a word, his libido having apparently decided that looking could wait.

Hector's laugh tugged Arthur back to the present, but he couldn't remember what they'd been talking about until Hector scratched at his own stubble. "Too true, son, too true." He leaned in. "Unless it's a close shave with the paps or the rozzers, eh? I trust you've been keeping your head down, as regards that personal matter we discussed?"

"Oh, yes," Arthur said, nodding earnestly. Because he _had_ kept his head down. He'd kept it pillowed on his arms or, when things had gotten really intense, buried in a cushion. His arse, however, had been another matter entirely.

Em had covered the dining room table with a cloth, set out some cushions and bath sheets, and—and for some strange reason, this was what had gone straight to Arthur's cock—removed all of the chairs except the one at the head of the table.

Arthur had put one cushion under his hips, and Em had started out kneeling on another in the chair. Eventually, though, he'd clambered onto the table and hauled Arthur's hips up onto his lap, pawing at the spit-damp crotch of his white cotton Y-fronts and muttering, "Offoffoff." 

Arthur had reached back, fumbling, only to have his hands slapped away. From somewhere on his belt Em had produced a pair of actual bandage scissors, which he'd probably nicked from work, and proceeded to _cut the crotch out of his pants._ Arthur had had only a moment to try and process the sensation of cooler air on his exposed skin before he'd found his cock cruelly trapped beneath the remaining elastic and a warm tongue in his arse.

It hadn't been the first time Em's tongue had been down there, but they'd never done _just_ that, and certainly not in that position. A few licks on either end of a fuck or a blowjob, to titillate or soothe, were hardly comparable to being treated like a particularly juicy pork roast set before a starving man.

Once he'd got over it though—or rather, given himself over to it—he'd begun moaning and back-thrusting in earnest.

He'd made a complete wreck of Em's complex support system of cushions and rolled bath sheets—and how fucking awesome was it that Em was the kind of deviant swot who stood around on physio training courses thinking about yoga's practical application for _rimming_ —and now had a slight ache in his lower back, but it had been more than worth it.

Even in the hardcore porn he'd watched, it had been difficult for Arthur to see exactly what was going on down there that made the recipients so enthusiastic. The idea of a man's face buried in his arse definitely got his dick hard, but onscreen it could look a bit naff. 

Now that he'd discovered what it _felt_ like though—and when it wasn't just tongue, but nose and lips and teeth, not to mention greedy, omnipresent fingers—well, he suspected that in future he'd get a whole lot more out of volume two of the _Assternoon Delights_ trilogy. 

And also, that his dining room table had probably been ruined for quiet suppers.

Arthur gave up trying to hide his manic grin. He set his snifter down on a nearby tray and, just to see what Hector would do, let his gaze linger on the arse of the cater waiter who bore it away.

"Say, Hector, I was thinking—what about gay-owned companies? Or at least ones that have a reputation for being, you know, friendly. It doesn't have to be anything obvious, but it would send a message to fans and other players in the know. Maybe you could ask—"

"Arthur, darling!"

Hector's panicked, empurpled expression faded to one of relief as Joan or Jane or Jada—whatever Uther's flavour of the fiscal quarter was called—swept down on them. Her hair looked suspiciously dishevelled to Arthur, but perhaps that was just the fashion these days.

"Your father wants a word. He's in the old office."

"Now?" It couldn't be much past half-ten. It was far too early for Uther to have abandoned his host duties and snuck off for, well, whatever it was he and Joan or Jane or Jada did to amuse themselves. "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Which was exactly what Em had said, when he'd left off tonguing Arthur's balls to take a phone call from bloody _Will._ Em wasn't a true sadist, to hear him tell it, but he seemed to take great delight in putting Arthur through varying cycles of arousal and denial, breaking him in to some new pleasure then snatching it away, orchestrating little interruptions and distractions until Arthur was a shameless, trembling mass of _needwant_ and _please._

Despite his words, Em had spent a few minutes chatting to Will. About what, Arthur hadn't a fucking clue; he'd been concentrating more on the denim-clad bulge pressed against his thigh and the warm, slick fingers tracing his sandal straps. 

Arthur's irritation dissipated at the memory, and he shook his head, chuckling.

"Sorry, duck," said Joan or Jane or Jada, eyeing him warily. "Only passing on the message."

Hector patted Arthur's shoulder. "Oh, go on. I think we're about done here, yes? And I should mingle. Have a think on those offers and ring me—anytime, day or night. There's a good lad."

Arthur made a point of whispering something to one of the dishier cater waiters as he walked away. It was only a request for a bottle of sparkling water, but Hector didn’t need to know that.

* * *

Tintagel House was no longer a real home to the Pendragons. When Uther wasn't abroad, he much preferred to stay in the London flat or the Camelot townhouse. A Borderlands hunting lodge satisfied his need for country air and, if he really needed space, there was always the _Dragon's Gold,_ his 350-foot luxury yacht that prowled the local seas.

Ygraine's ancestral estate now served primarily as a fairytale backdrop for parties and corporate weekends. The management of it had been contracted out when Arthur was thirteen or so and, as he'd bitterly told Em, he fully expected to see the day when he'd have to pay a tour fee to visit his former nursery. The "old office" was one of the few rooms kept for the family's exclusive use. It was a sombre place, all wood panelling, thick drapes and hulking, toffee-hued furniture.

When he entered, Arthur was surprised to see Morgana curled up on one end of the horsehair sofa. She'd kicked off her heels and was skimming a copy of the _Camelot Echo._ Uther was nowhere to be seen, but there was a light under the door leading to the kitchenette and toilet that had been shoehorned into a pantry.

"Taking a break from your admirers?"

"I was _summoned,"_ Morgana said, "by a stunning display of ambulatory synthetic cleavage. Ah, I see I trained you well." She pointed at the massive desk that dominated the room; a bottle of sparkling water, identical to the one in Arthur's hand, sat beside a half-full decanter and jumble of glasses.

Uther rarely drank spirits, but on the occasions when he did, he set to it with a rare will. Morgana had been the one to show Arthur how to try and slow him down, alternating his scotch with glasses of water and waylaying him with dishes of cashews.

"Let's hope we don't need it." Arthur set his bottle down beside the first and joined Morgana on the sofa.

"Any idea what this is about?

Morgana shrugged. She glanced at the pantry door, then tilted her head towards Arthur and gave him one of her kitten smiles. "Did you have a nice time last night, Grompet?"

Arthur wanted to tell her to fuck off, but he was still having a hard time keeping a straight face. He had a clear vision of Em clad in a pair of his old trackies, freshly-washed hair plastered down round his ears, gingerly flossing in front of the bathroom mirror.

"Nextht time," he'd said, "tetlh tha bloody thister of yours to go eathy on the gold leath." He'd rinsed and spat, then examined his teeth. "For fuck's sake, I still look like I've been gargling with Goldschläger."

"Next time?" Arthur had said, looking pointedly at the ruins of his costume lying on the bathroom floor. "Am I meant to get a supply of those in, then?"

"Dear god no," Em had said, turning around with an expression of mock-horror. "Not unless you want to kill me dead from lust. Do you have _any_ idea what you looked like coming down those steps? It was like my _gayest_ fantasy's gay fantasy. I'm pretty sure I drooled, and Ellie had to kick me to stop me staring. Luckily people just thought we were really getting in character."

"Arthur? Hey, earth to Arthur." Morgana was nudging Arthur's thigh with one stocking-clad foot.

"What?" Arthur snapped. It came out more peevish than angry though, and his face continued to betray him. He couldn't seem to stop bloody _smiling._

"Oh my god," Morgana said, setting the newspaper aside. She studied him for a moment, then blurted, "You're serious, aren't you? About him."

"Ssh, Morgana, keep your—"

"Like, long-term _keepsies_ serious. Not just smitten."

"I—"

The pantry door swung open and Uther walked in. His bowtie and cuffs were undone, his face flushed with drink.

"Smitten?" he said. He padded across the carpet and lowered himself into his battered leather wingback. "Who's smitten?" He studied them, smiling wryly when he noticed the new bottle of water on the desk.

Arthur drew his legs together and sat up straight. Morgana didn't even twitch. Languidly, she reached for the paper and held it aloft.

"All of Camelot, Papa, with us."

Uther chuckled. "Ah, yes. 'Mere Mortals Weep at Pendragon Sibs' Daring Display.' And small wonder, dear girl; you have your mother's looks, and that's one thing I never found fault with."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Morgana tense, but her smile never wavered. Uther's affair with Morgana's mother had been brief and, by all accounts, stormy. It had been well before Arthur was born, but he'd heard the stories. 

"Oh, but it was Arthur who truly stole the show," Morgana said sweetly. "I was afraid I'd have to fight them off with my bow."

"Yes, well," Uther said, frowning. "Arthur, I was rather surprised not to see you with Ms. Olafsson. Is she unwell?"

"I'm not with Vivian, Father."

"No?"

Arthur glanced at his sister. She gave a subtle shake of her head. Arthur knew she was right, that this wasn't the best time for it—he'd been planning to tell his father over a round of golf the next day—but he was overcome by a sudden boldness. 

Why _not_ now, with Morgana as witness? Talking to Hector had been easier with Kay there and, as for Uther's sobriety, a part of Arthur argued that he'd rather hear his father's true, unguarded reaction than suffer nine holes of awkward silence.

Keeping his eyes on Morgana, Arthur shrugged, saying, "In fact, I never have been. With Vivian, that is." She blinked, then her eyes blazed with something Arthur thought might be pride, or at least bemused approval. It was how she sometimes looked at Leon. 

"Actually, Father, I—"

Uther sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that," he broke in, reaching for the decanter. He unstoppered it and poured out a measure of scotch. He took a healthy sip and, cradling the glass in his hands, settled back into his chair. "Very sorry indeed. Vivian Olafsson is part of what I wished to speak to you about."

"Oh yes? And why is that?" Arthur said sharply.

"She is a lovely young woman, Arthur, and her father has been an invaluable member of the board. I _had_ hoped the two of you might settle down and give me some grandchildren—and that goes double for you, Morgana."

Uther took another sip and leaned forward, hands steepled over his glass.

"But Father, I don't—" Arthur began again. 

This time when Uther interrupted he directed his words, and his gaze, at Morgana.

"My dear, haven't you dabbled in this engagement, not to mention this shop of yours, long enough? I confess I'd rather my daughter didn't wed a footballer, but at least Belcourt's got a head on his shoulders. I give his legs a few more years; then he can retire and move into something more suitable."

Morgana rose from the sofa in a flurry of green satin. She slid one of the water bottles towards Uther. Then she poured herself a good inch of scotch, tossed it back, and slammed the glass down on the desk.

"Leon intends to play until he's forty," she announced. "Even if it's in the lower leagues. And _Arthur_ is—"

"Gay!" Arthur cried, exasperated. Sisterly support was one thing, but weren't there rules against hijacking someone else's coming out? _"I'm_ gay. Me."

Morgana looked back over her shoulder, eyes wide. "I was only going to say that _you_ are a footballer, brother dearest, so he's using a double standard, but there's that cat out of the bag. Hurrah." She gave him a quick smile before rounding on Uther once more. 

He'd bowed his head at Arthur's words, and Arthur could not read his expression.

"As for children," Morgana continued, "Leon and I may start a family in the coming year, but as I've _told_ you, there will be no wedding until Viv and I have the initial string of UK franchises up and running. And the Paris hub. Arthur, you?"

"What?" 

Uther was still bowed over his scotch glass.

"Papa said he wants grandchildren. Are you going to oblige?"

"Um, no, I don't... well, I haven't given it much thought." Arthur tried to imagine his father with a lapful of squirming, sticky-fingered toddlers, and his nerves gave way to hilarity. He snorted. "I think it's safe to say they won't be coming from Vivian though."

Morgana sank down beside him on the sofa, eyes merry. "Are you sure about that? She could always be your surrogate. I still say your babies would look magnificent."

"Ew. No thank you." Arthur pulled a face.

"You wouldn't have to actually sleep with her, you caveman. There's this thing called S-C-I-E-N—"

"I know, but still." Arthur slapped Morgana's prodding finger away. "I think our DNA would be better off as just friends."

"Ooh, I know! What about Elyan's sister, Gwen? She's a bit of a stunner—looked amazing last night in that leather armour. Old footballing family, Leon says, plus she and Em are close, yes? So I bet—"

There was a ringing crash as Uther sent his glass skidding across the desk into the others. He pointed at them, one thick finger stabbing the air.

"Do not mock me," he said, voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, Papa—"

"No, Morgana, let me," Arthur cut in. His father blinked, some emotion—surprise, maybe—softening his features before his stern mask slipped back into place. 

"We're not mocking you, Father. Morgana's never made a secret of her engagement plans, and you should know better than anyone that she never jokes about business, because she bloody learned that from you!"

"True," Morgana chimed in, nodding.

"As for my being gay, I was going to tell you tomorrow, but it seemed relevant. To your present concerns, I mean. So, just to be clear: No Vivian. No more Vivians, _ever."_

Arthur paused expectantly, but Morgana remained silent for once, and Uther only blinked again, slow and lizard-like. A tight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"About the club, believe me, whatever you're going to say I've probably heard from Coach and Hector. I understand what's at stake, that it's not just about me, but the lads have been massive, for the most part. They're helping us—"

"Us?" Uther's smile faded.

"My, ah, partner and I. Our mates are helping us keep things discreet, for now. But eventually we—"

_"Partner?"_

"Boyfriend, bloke I'm seeing, whatever." Arthur gestured impatiently. "I suppose partner's a bit much. We haven't exactly discussed—anyway, point is, it's definitely more than casual. I can't hide him or pass him off as just a mate forever; more importantly, I _won't."_

"Hear, hear!" Morgana said. "Papa, do you realise what this could mean for Camelot, if the club were to actively support Arthur's coming out?"

If Arthur had been sweating before, he was now swimming inside his clothes. As Morgana stood and began to enthusiastically outline various marketing challenges and opportunities, he clawed open his tie and collar. He slumped back into the sofa, watching his father's face and thinking, _Come on, old man, out with it. I know you've got more for me than a twitchy eye and a sour little smile._

"... real first. Not Cenred or Odin or Sir Alined, you. Do you realise what a coup that would be?"

Suddenly Uther met Arthur's gaze full on. "Morgana," he said.

"Yes?"

"I think you should leave us." 

"What? But I—"

"It's all right," Arthur said. He rose, pressing a kiss on his sister's cheek.

"What was that for?" As children, she'd had to bully Arthur into giving her kisses. 

"You," Arthur said. "Thank you."

Morgana smiled. "Any time. But are you sure you're—" Her gaze slid to Uther, who was reaching for the scotch.

"I'll be fine. Besides, you'd best go rescue Leon. You know how snarly he gets around Oxbridge types."

* * *

After Morgana left, Arthur excused himself to the loo, where he undid a few more buttons and splashed his face. He also drained off a glass of ordinary tap water, stuck his tongue out at himself in the mirror, and contemplated ringing Em for courage. He settled instead for stretching his lower back and thinking of the oddly shy, almost apologetic morning kisses Em had placed there before pressing him into the mattress for a massage.

By the time Arthur returned, Uther had poured out two glasses of scotch, which sat on the desk beside a white A4 envelope. Arthur accepted his glass without protest, though he had no intention of drinking it, and nodded at the envelope.

"What's this?"

"This," Uther said, resting his fingertips on the flap, "is a bunch of shit. Or at least I thought it was a bunch of shit, until now."

He folded back the flap and upended the envelope's contents onto the desk.

There were photocopies of letters and newspaper articles, but what really caught Arthur's eye were the pictures. They were the "missing" photographs from outside the Tuck Club, the shots of him and Em and Gerry. In most of them he was grinning stupidly at Em, or else looming into his personal space. He'd let go of his hand as they'd left the club, but he'd evidently stuck close.

There were a few other photographs as well, shots of Em getting in or out of the M3 at Knightswood or the train station. Arthur panicked when he saw one of his car parked in a lay-by, but there was only the one rain-blurred exterior shot, clipped to an article about gay cruising sites. 

Uther stood back and let Arthur examine the materials, silently sipping his scotch.

Individually, none of the images were particularly damning, but viewed together? Arthur could see, exactly, the picture the sender was trying to paint. And when he skimmed the letters—hateful, rambling, and all demanding to know what Uther planned to do about his "dirty poof" of a son—he felt a stab of fear.

"You're being blackmailed?"

"Hardly," Uther scoffed. "It's been a month and there's been no mention of money yet, but no matter. I wouldn't give these people the dirt off my shoes."

"Person," Arthur corrected, roughly pushing the documents back into a pile. "His name is Mordred, some dickwad journo with serious issues. Works for _The Sun,_ and some freelance. He's been banned from several clubs, and I'll bet you anything he's had all kinds of trespass and privacy charges brought against him. The police will have heard of him. When did you give them the originals?"

Arthur looked up to find his father staring at him. 

"The police, Father, how long have they had the originals?"

Uther barked out a laugh. "Are you simple? Why on earth would I go to the police? Then it would be on the front page for certain. No, no. I've got an old mate looking into it, ex-army. I'll pass your information along though." 

He waved Arthur aside and slid the stack of paper and images back into the envelope. He opened one of the drawers—not the one, Arthur noted, where he kept Ygraine's photograph. He slipped the envelope inside, closed the drawer, and locked it.

Arthur retreated to the sofa. Sat. Stared at his father. "I don't understand. Were you—why didn't you say anything until now?"

Sighing, Uther ran a hand through the grey bristle on top of his head. "Despite what you may think, I really don't care where you stick your cock—I'm hardly one to judge, am I?" He gave Arthur one of his sly, tight smiles. "But I do care where people _think_ you're sticking your cock. I'll not let the Pendragon name be dragged through the courts and the gutter press. I'm more than happy to deal with this Mordred, but when he's dealt with, let's let that be an end to it, all right? I won't have you betraying the club."

"How, exactly, am I betraying the club?" Arthur said, rousing from his stupor. "We're holding tight to fourth, and last I checked I was goddamn player of the month."

"You're being selfish. You're putting your own urges above your duty to club and family." Uther drained his glass and set it beside the full one Arthur had abandoned on the desk. 

"Look, I'm not asking you to give up your friend. This Emrys has been a real asset to the club, by all reports. I can see that he's fond of you and, absent other... outlets, I can understand why you'd find his attentions flattering. I suppose I should commend you, actually, for being as discreet as you have been. Weaker men might have been tempted by more unsavoury options."

Uther walked round the desk and, to Arthur's great surprise, sat beside him on the sofa. Up close his eyes were less fierce, his face less composed. He reached out as if to touch Arthur's cheek, but settled for clapping him on the shoulder.

"But put all this nonsense about partners and going public out of your head, hmm? Get yourself a girlfriend, Arthur. Or preferably a wife—there are plenty of women who'd give their right arm for a chance to wed a Pendragon—and I'll have all the paperwork drawn up. She needn't be under any illusions, she'll be handsomely compensated, and what goes on behind closed doors is—"

"Do you even hear yourself?!" Arthur exploded up from the sofa, knocking his father's hand aside. "You want to _buy_ me a beard? What century do you think this is?"

"Arthur—"

"Em's not an _outlet._ He's not a convenient valet or a fucking stray whom I tolerate because he followed me home! Do you even know how long it took me to convince him to give me a chance? I chose him, Father, _I_ chose _him,_ and it's the best decision I've made since I joined the academy."

"Arthur, calm down. And leave the hysterics to your sister; they don't become you."

Arthur turned away with a growl of frustration. There wasn't really anywhere to go, though, unless he wanted to pace circles round the desk. Or sit in his father's chair.

"I apologise, Son. I hadn't realised how attached you've become to this Emrys. But in a way, that makes this easier."

Arthur whipped back round. "What do you mean?"

Uther had commandeered the sofa, legs stretched long in front of him, arms draped across the back.

"Well, let's just say it gives you an incentive to keep things quiet. You may not care about your career, but what about his?"

"What of it? He's hardly in the closet, and you certainly can't sack him for being gay."

"But I _can_ sack him for having an inappropriate relationship with one of my players."

"You wouldn't—"

Uther shrugged. "I don't want to—as I said, he is a valuable asset—but I'd do it if necessary, to save you from yourself."

Furious, Arthur grabbed the nearest thing to hand, the cut glass stopper from the decanter. He squeezed it, the edges biting into his palm. He imagined whipping it at his father's head. Instead, he smashed it down on the desk, hard enough to leave a mark.

"Arthur, you're still so young," Uther snapped. "You've no idea how impossible it is, what you're asking."

"Well maybe some other club, who isn't living in the fucking dark ages, can _make_ it possible. Albion would come for me the instant I crook my finger, and Hector says that's just the beginning. And Em—with his skills, he could go anywhere. He could leave tomorrow."

Uther let out an ugly laugh. "Morgana did get all the business sense in the family, didn't she?" 

He gathered himself and stood, swaying slightly. He approached until they were practically toe to toe, which gave him the height advantage. Arthur knew it was a cheap shot, but he didn't think he had any more anger left to give.

"Success isn't about kicking a ball in the back of a net, son, it's about amassing things—capital, connections, _favours owed._ If you cross me in this, I'll see to it that Emrys won't work near football again. Or any sport, for that matter. The only legs he'll be rubbing down will belong to knacked heifers on some godforsaken farm out in the fucking _Ridings."_

Arthur closed his eyes. "Fuck you," he whispered.

"Son, look, I only—"

"No." Arthur opened his eyes, pushed roughly past, and headed for the door. "I'm done. You're still my chairman, and I'll respect you as such, but other than that we're through. If you have a problem with me on the pitch, you can talk to Coach. Otherwise you'll have to go through Hector."

"Arthur!"

Arthur slammed the door.

By the sound of it, the party was still going strong in the great hall. Dreading the hot press of bodies and drunken good cheer, Arthur plunged into the house's warren of service passages, finally escaping out a side door. Sucking in the cold, fresh air, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his mobile. 

It took him three tries to punch in Em's code.

_"Hiya, Grompet! How's the money party? Tell me boring—no wait, tell me some Tories tripped over their hypocrisies and drowned in the champagne fountain, then someone feeeemous swooned into your arms. Hello? Arthur, where'd you go?"_

In the background Arthur could hear voices and laughter, clinking glassware and the sound of someone tuning a guitar. Em was obviously in public and a little tipsy, but above all he sounded _happy._

Arthur was loath to spoil that, so all he said was, "Em, I'm done here. Completely done. How the fuck do I get to Ealdor?"


	28. Home Advantage

Of course Will would pick bloody now to call in his favour. Or rather, Em called it in on his behalf.

_"His flight to Burma's been cancelled and they can't get him on another 'til Tuesday. Freya's off down Fanny Lane at Helen's and I'm—well, I'm here, aren't I? Car and all. So he's stranded—stranded and all alone, poor Wills—and my mam hasn't seen him for ages. Please?"_

When Arthur asked why Will couldn't take the damn train, as their flat was in the exact opposite direction, Em laughed, blithely informing him that there were no trains to Ealdor. And as soon as Arthur put the address Em had given him into the M3's navigation system, he knew why.

Ealdor was apparently situated on the hind teat of nowhere, perched in the hills along the border of Camelot and Escetia. Sat Nav Man couldn't even map the course, losing the plot on the surface roads off the motorway and alternating between enquiring whether Arthur perhaps meant "Ealingforth" or "Eldinthorpe" and sending him into an ash lagoon.

_"See? It's destiny; you need Will. I could tell you all the landmarks, but you'll never see them in the dark, city mouse. I'll ring him and tell him to be ready out front in an hour, yeah?"_

Once he'd collected his things from the guesthouse, Arthur left voicemails for Hector and Morgana. He told Hector only that he would be out of touch for a few days. He told Morgana where he was going, so she wouldn't fret, but that she could tell anyone else who wanted to find him to kindly fuck right the fuck off.

Arthur spent the drive miserably failing in his plan to not think about his father's threats. He tried angry music, canned football chat, and novelty first elevens. He even tried distracting himself with a call-in agony aunt program, figuring other people's problems might put his in perspective, but it was no good. Delinquent nieces and houseguests who overstayed their welcome didn't do shit for his perspective—his father was still an offensive bloody tyrant—and he could give a fuck what colour stockings he should wear to a winter christening.

By the time he pulled up in front of the corn exchange, he was still an emotional wreck, and he knew he was being unkind to his transmission.

"Here," he said, tossing the keys to a gobsmacked Will. "My head's all over the shop, so happy fucking Christmas. Don't get pulled over, and don't touch the presets."

"Whoa, mate, who do you hang out with? That's common courtesy."

"Em's always messing with the presets."

Will laughed as he set his bag in the boot. "That's your trouble right there then. You should never have given him seat memory privileges; he's grown power mad."

"He told you about that?"

Will looked up from lovingly eyeing the M3's rear end. "Course he did. Needed a translation."

"Sorry?"

"Guyspeak. He's not always fully fluent, as you've probably noticed. Never knew his da, did he? Practically had to teach the poor bugger how to scratch his own balls."

"Er, still not following," Arthur muttered as they slid into their seats. "Sorry, long night. Bloody long."

Will glanced over, and Arthur could see him finally taking in the mangled collar and wrinkled dinner jacket. His hair was surely a mess as well, the victim of sweat and nervous fingers. 

"He wanted to know what it _meant,"_ Will said patiently.

"Ah." Arthur waited for him to settle, watching as he twisted and wriggled before rolling his shoulders back and visibly melting into the padded leather. "So, what did you tell him?"

"That you were either a friendless wanker or a presets whore and he shouldn't get his hopes up—no, seriously, what do you think I said?"

Arthur shrugged, too drained to play along.

"I told him to start picking china patterns, of course." Will turned his attentions to the steering wheel and gearshift, murmuring, "Oh, you beauty."

Arthur tilted his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, a chuckle escaping despite himself. Then he imagined Em strolling around the club shop with a hand scanner, gleefully zapping lurid CFC logo dishes and tea towels under the stern gaze of the larger-than-life wall mural of Uther, and his chuckle morphed into a hysteria-tinged laughing jag.

Will looked over, alarmed. "Alright there, Pendragon?"

Arthur covered his face with one hand, waving the other until he could gasp out, "Fine, fine. Please, go. Drive." Will started the engine, but he continued to sneak dubious glances at Arthur as he fastened his seat belt and checked the mirrors.

"I'm not—I don't usually, um, " Arthur said when at last he had control of his breathing. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, surreptitiously wiping away the tears that threatened to spill. "Fuck. You must think I'm a nutter."

_"Think?"_ Will pulled away from the kerb. "Oh, mate, I _know._ I'm into simple living, for the most part, but if I owned a ride like this? I wouldn't let anyone else touch it, let alone drive it into the arse back of beyond in the middle of the night."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, well." He thought of his father's face as he'd last seen it—not disgusted or disappointed, just drunk-ugly and exasperated, as if _Arthur_ was the one who was being unreasonable—and clenched his hands in his lap. There had been other times when he'd wanted to strike the old man, but he'd never come so close to actually doing it. "Let's just say there are extenuating circumstances."

"Like you having more money than sense?"

"Wha—" Arthur tensed momentarily before his brain registered that Will was only taking the piss. He relaxed, welcoming the distraction. "Nah, that's pretty much standard in my line of work."

"Tch. Footballers. Don't know how Em puts up with coddling you lot day in, day out. I mean, I can guess why he puts up with _you,_ but—"

"For fuck's sake just _drive,_ Jeeves," Arthur cut in, struggling to keep a straight face. "And mind the bloody potholes."

* * *

Arthur peered out the window, trying to see what had caused Will to make another sharp turn. There was no moon though, and he could see fuck all beyond the reach of the headlights. He was fully prepared to admit that Em was right; he'd never have made it on his own.

"If you drive us into a bog, I'll—"

"Relax, mate," Will said, accelerating out of the turn. "We're nearly there."

"Nearly into a _bog,_ where we are going to _die,"_ Arthur muttered.

Will laughed. "Whatever you say, sunshine. Look at the upside though. Good corpse preservation in bogs. In a few hundred years we could be on display in London."

"Christ, you sound like Em. Is there something in the water round here that breeds oddity?"

"More like Hunith's winter ale, mate, not that you heard it from me. Just wait 'til you get a pint of that in you, you'll be—there, you see? Ealdor in all her glory."

Arthur realised they must have been wending their way up the backside of a hill, because he could now see the lights of a town laid out below. A shimmering central cobweb gave way to the neat stripes of terraces and the irregular outlines of surrounding farms. 

"Hunith's is off the top end of the High Street, on the far side there, and her pub's just round the corner," Will said as they began the descent. "Ready to make a good impression?"

Arthur checked the dash. "It's half-past two. Surely Em's mum isn't waiting up to—"

"Oh, Pendragon," Will said pityingly, "Hunith's the least of your worries. Half the street will still be at the pub, pouring pints down our darling Em's throat in the hopes he'll let something slip they can use in the pools." 

Arthur groaned. He'd pictured various scenarios upon arrival in Ealdor—Em lounging against a stone wall or standing backlit in a doorway, or perhaps dragging Arthur up a dark staircase, one finger held to his lips—but all of them had involved no-holds-barred kissing and an urgent scramble for the comfort of bare skin. Exactly _none_ had included running a gauntlet of curious locals.

Nor had he entirely thought through the fact that he would finally be meeting Em's _mother._ Em was no Gareth. He didn’t go on and on about his mum, but when he did speak of her it was with a forced casualty—not to mention a fond smile—that betrayed her importance. What would Hunith think of him turning up in the middle of the night like this? How could he face her, knowing what his father was prepared to do?

The banter with Will had kept his anxiety at bay, but now it came flooding back. All too soon, Will was slowing in front of a stone and half-timbered building with light pouring from its lower windows. Metal letters affixed to the masonry proclaimed it "The Dragon's Egg."

Arthur stared apprehensively. The place looked like it had sucked down one too many of its own pints—the doors were painted a garish motley of red and green, no two walls met at right angles, and the upper storey bulged out over the ground floor. A gaggle of bicycles leaning against the front wall attested to the crowd inside.

Arthur broke out in a sweat. "Maybe I should just stay in the car, yeah? Or wait around back? You could—"

"No dice, mate. No way." Will's voice had lost its playful edge. He pulled in beside the building, manoeuvring between the wall and a row of skips. Behind the pub, the passage broadened into a courtyard ringed with outbuildings.

Arthur held his tongue while Will carefully backed the car into what looked like a stable. Courtyard lamps illuminated boot benches and a tack rack just inside the doors, but the stalls were empty and the floor was clean. The place hadn't seen hay or horseflesh in some time.

"Look," Arthur said as soon as the engine was off. 

"No, _you_ look," Will said firmly. "Outside of work, I'm not in the habit of telling grown men their business, but Em is the closest thing I have to a brother in this world. Barring uni, we've been together since we were pissing in each other's bathwater, so I will say this: Em doesn't ask just anyone back here. There have only been two, to my knowledge." He met Arthur's eyes for a moment, then looked away, staring out through the windscreen.

"One legged it the second he heard the word 'mam,' and the second arrived high as a kite. He was rude to Hunith, tried to chat up the baker's son, and lasted all of four hours before fucking off back to London. Em didn't bother, after that. So if you're after more than a shag, Pendragon—if you want him to _stay_ —you will go in the front door and meet the menagerie."

"For fuck's sake, will you please stop talking to me like you're the gaffer," Arthur snapped. He didn't like being called on his cowardice, didn't like hearing about the assholes who'd made Em so wary—though it explained a lot about why Em had been so fascinated with putting on his trainers when he'd first extended the invitation. "And my name's _Arthur."_

"Yeah, but. Are you coming in or not?"

"Of course I bloody am! Now give me back my keys."

"Oh." Will's face broke into a lopsided smile. "Well then, _Arthur,_ welcome to the glorious batshittery that is Ealdor. I'll get the bags."

* * *

At first, their entrance went unremarked. Everyone's attention was on the far corner, where a woman with a guitar was singing something mournful in Welsh. People were humming or singing along; some simply sat with their eyes closed, listening. Then the woman caught sight of Will. She stopped abruptly, crying his name, and in a great scrape of chairs and creaking of benches the whole pub turned to look. That's when Arthur became acutely aware of the fact that he was wearing black tie in a room full of denim and woolly jumpers.

Pretending he was at a press conference, Arthur dug his nails into his palms, slapped on a smile and nodded at the sea of gawping faces. Then he spotted Em clinging to one end of the bar, and his smile grew.

He was wearing a green scarf and that soft grey jumper from their first date. His hair was a wreck, sticking out in tufts like it did after sucking cock because Arthur couldn't keep his hands out of it. Arthur bit back a laugh—Em must have suffered a truly epic night of affectionate hair ruffling.

When their eyes met, Em's face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

_Well, fuck, that's that then,_ Arthur thought. _Morgana nailed it. Keepsies it is._ Because whether Arthur hadn't seen that smile in minutes, hours or days, it made his heart give a happy little kick. Every damn time.

He had a hand halfway in the air before realising that waving at someone sat not ten yards away was completely naff. He rubbed the back of his neck instead, wondering if he should stick to a back slap or a forearm clasp, or if he could manage a proper hug without doing something embarrassing.

"William," a voice rang out, high and clear, "tell your handsome friend there my funeral's not 'til next week. But in the meantime I'm free for a wedding."

The tension broke, the pub erupting in laughter. Arthur tore his gaze away from Em to see an elderly woman grinning at them from a seat near the fireplace. She was bald as an egg and beautiful still, her gleaming dentures a stark contrast to her fluffy black jumper.

"Ah, go on with you, Callie," Will said, dropping the bags and heading over to her chair. "Everyone knows you'll outlive us all. And that it's me you're after." He bent to kiss her upraised cheek, then turned to the woman who'd been singing. She'd set her guitar aside and drawn near; now she gathered Will in her arms and squeezed him tightly.

Arthur realised with a jolt that she was Em's mother—her hair was lighter and her skin ruddy, but she had the same high forehead and generous lips. He watched, fascinated, as she simultaneously cuddled Will and chastised him for staying away so long. When she finished her tirade, she regarded Arthur frankly over Will's shoulder, and he saw the likeness in her eyes as well.

"I'm Arthur," he said, walking towards her. _I'm Arthur and your son saved me and my father is a bastard but I'm not, I swear._ "Arthur Pendragon." He had to raise his voice, as everyone else had turned back to their drinks and gossip, sparing Arthur side-eyed glances as he passed. "Sorry to crash in on you like this, Ms. Emrys."

"Hunith, please," she said. "Welcome." She released Will and took a step back, smoothing down the front of her jumper.

Arthur felt a keen stab of disappointment. He knew it was silly, but for a moment there he'd imagined she might wrap him in a bone-crushing hug as well.

"And thank you for bringing William back to us."

"It was no trouble." Arthur was staring and grinning like a fool, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt a boy again, arms threaded through the crush barriers, hollering his lungs out in the hopes that one of his heroes would glance his way and come sign his matchday programme. He desperately wanted Hunith to like him. He desperately wanted to _matter,_ to not just be another slick face who liked the cut of her son's trousers. 

"Technically, I brought him," Will chimed in. "If it weren't for me, Lord Muck here would still be wuthering out on the heath."

"True. I'd never have—"

"Sh'not heath, Wills, is _moors."_ Arthur looked round. Em had slid off his stool and was making his way towards them, holding onto posts and backs of chairs (and a couple of surprised heads) for balance and blinking like a newborn pup. "I keep trying to explain—hello, Arthur—the ditherence. Hello." Realising he'd run out of props, Em grabbed for his mother's hand and slung his other arm round Arthur's shoulders.

Will laughed. "Oh, mate, are you _literally_ legless? Hunith, what have you let them do to your son?"

Worry lines creased Hunith's brow. She shook her head and raised her free hand to stroke Em's cheek.

"Believe me, I've had words, and he's been on clear pints for the past hour. He'll be grand in a bit, won't you, love?"

"I'm grand now," Em announced. "Hello Arthur."

"Hello, Emmett," Arthur said, patting his back. He tried to do it casually, like he would with Elyan or Gwaine—his mum was standing right there, for fuck's sake, with that puzzled little half-frown on her face—but he couldn't quite keep the fondness out of his voice. Especially with Em gazing at him like that, eyes half-lidded and bright with affection.

"Arthur. Hello."

"I think we've covered that bit," Arthur said, earning another chuckle from Will.

"Oh, okay. You're _here."_

Arthur felt fingers groping at his collar, petting the side of his neck. He ducked his head and leaned in conspiratorially. "Can't fool you, can I?"

"And you've met my lovely, lovely mam. And Callie, our mash... um, matriarsh. Arch. Village queen." Em giggled. "Not in a drag way, though," he added in a boozy whisper, his lips grazing Arthur's ear and making him go hot all over. "And you're never to marry her, m'kay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, mate." Without thinking, Arthur slid his hand along the ridge of Em's shoulder blade and gave it a squeeze, smiling as Em swayed into the touch.

Will sniggered.

Arthur tore his eyes from Em's and glanced guiltily at Hunith. She was watching them closely, a strange expression on her face. Arthur was still trying to decipher it when, suddenly, she blinked and pulled away.

"What can I get you boys to drink?"

"Er." Arthur struggled to think with Em's whole body weight now slumped against him. He smelled of peat smoke and hops, and the jumper was as soft as he remembered. "Will said you do a cracking winter ale?"

Ignoring Will, who was now spluttering with laughter, Hunith nodded briskly. "Emmett, love, go roust Reverend Davies and Father Dunne from the snug so Arthur has a quiet place to sit. Like as not they kipped off during the singing." 

Once Em had extracted himself and started his sloth-walk towards the snug, Hunith shot Will a narrow-eyed look so familiar that Arthur nearly clapped his hands and demanded a repeat.

"I blame you, William."

"Hey now, I just got here!"

"Who got him pie-eyed on cider when he was all of twelve? Who snuck him pints when I was in the back?"

"I _never."_

"My money would be on Gwaine," Arthur blurted, not wanting to be left out.

Will looked at him, beaming. "See, there," he said. "Arthur knows the truth. And you don't see Orkney showing his face back here, now do you? Or doing this?" He planted a smack on Hunith's cheek, then ducked, as if expecting to be hit.

Hunith's eyes softened. "Ah, go on with you then. But move the bags before you sink your face in my ale. They're blocking the door." She glanced at Arthur, smoothing down her jumper again in what Arthur realised must be a nervous tic. "Arthur, I hope it's all right. We haven't much room at the house, so I've put you upstairs here at the Egg."

"Oh, that's—that'll be fine, Hunith. Thank you. This is an inn, then?"

"When it needs to be," she said, venturing a small, enigmatic smile. "But there's no one else staying in at the moment, so you can… well, you won't be bothered. So. I'll just go start your pints. William, please see to it that my boy sticks to his water."

Will stared after her. "Why, I ask, don't the mothers ever do that with me?"

"What?"

Will clapped Arthur on the shoulder and leaned in, whispering, "You do realise, mate, that she just gave you the green light to shag her son senseless while you're in town."

* * *

The snug proved a welcome relief from all the eyes. A trickle of people stopped in, ostensibly to say hello to Will, but for the most part they were left alone. Arthur silently blessed Hunith for her tact.

Will provided a running commentary between introductions, and Em chimed in here and there with bits of gossip. Mostly, however, he just sipped his pint of water and watched Arthur with sleepy eyes, somehow managing to look gormless and alluring at the same time. Will had made him sit on his own, opposite.

"Otherwise he'll be in our laps," he'd warned. "As you've seen, he's a bit of a clingy monkey when he's been down the barrel."

Arthur wouldn't have minded a lapful of Em, but he didn't want to test the limits of Hunith's hospitality. In fact, he was prepared to do just about anything to stop her fussing with her jumper every time she spoke to him. She was being polite to a fault, but he would have much preferred brisk commands, unguarded smiles and effusive hug-scolding.

He had a feeling that if he texted Morgana, she would tell him this meant he was clearly, pathetically in love with all the Emryses ever. Either that or Will had been right, and there was something in the beer.

Arthur swallowed the last of his pint. "Say, Em, if I can't marry Callie, can I marry your mum? She's brilliant. As is her ale."

"Technically that would make you his stepfather," Will pointed out. He tilted his head thoughtfully. "I'm not sure if that's good kink or bad kink."

"Well it's not _my_ kink, so just stop it, the pair of you." Em kicked at them under the table, but there wasn't much sting to it.

Arthur clutched at his shin, feigning injury. "I'm telling that Hippo bloke you broke your vows."

Em stuck out his tongue.

"Nice, Emrys. How old are you again?"

"Old enough," Em retorted. Then, dammit, he must have noticed Arthur staring at his mouth, because he murmured, "Speaking of kink..." and took a sip of water, lapping obscenely at the rim of his glass.

Will slammed his pint down on the table. "Alright, alright, I get the message. Shall I say it?"

"Say what, Wills?" Em smiled coyly.

"A room. You two. Get one already."

Arthur chuckled, but it turned into a yawn. "Well, I have one, but I'm not sure where it is." He raised his arms above his head, twisting to stretch his lower back. The ache had faded, but he'd still spent far too much time sitting in a car.

"Ooh, yes. Off we sneak. Come with me." Em slid out of the booth and held the snug door open, beckoning.

Will followed them, making noises about getting another pint before Hunith kicked everyone out. He showed Arthur where he'd stashed the bags. "Come grab me whenever you lads are up, yeah? We'll do the tour. I know where the bodies are buried."

"Again with the dead things. Where are you staying, anyway?"

Will stared at him with a bemused expression. "At Hunith's. In Em's room, which I seriously doubt he'll be making use of long as you're here, am I right?"

"Will," Em muttered. "You shouldn't assume. I mean, he's a guest. He might like his own—"

"Oh, stop it. Ems, he didn't let me drive his M3 across your precious _moors_ in the dead of night just for a pint and a glimpse of your pretty face. So leave the cold sheets to me and go put him out of his misery. Alright?"

Will patted Em's cheek, clapped Arthur on the shoulder, and ambled over to where Hunith was collecting empty glasses off tables.

Em glanced at Arthur almost shyly. "Um. That work for you?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "And here I thought you were the brains of this operation." He leaned in, grabbed a handful of the fringe on the end of Em's scarf and gave it a gentle tug. "Yes, please. Sleep. Sex. Stay. Whatever. But don't you _dare_ treat me like a bloody guest."


	29. Switch Play

The next thing Arthur knew, Em had his wrist and he was being dragged behind the bar.

"What the fuck?"

"There's an outer stair, but this way's much more fun. Get down."

Arthur dropped his bag and let Em tug at his hands and trousers until they were crouching, huddled on the sticky mats next to stacked flats of glassware.

"What are we doing down here?"

Em gazed at Arthur for a moment, eyes wide and brows comically high. "Making sure the coast is clear." Then, with a sly grin, he reached up and pulled a wooden tap handle half-hidden behind the glassware. A square section of wall in front of them swung away.

Arthur laughed. "Oh, that is so—of course. Of course this place would have secret passages."

"Thank fuck for rebels and thieves, eh?" Em tossed Arthur's bag through, then prodded his bum. "In you get."

Arthur had to crawl through the opening, but the passage beyond was tall enough to stand in. Once Em had closed the door, Arthur hauled him up in the darkness, pressing him against the wall.

He kissed wool and part of an ear before finding lips, but once he had them he latched on, gripping Em's jaw in both hands and pinning him below with his hips. Neither of them were hard, but there was something incredibly satisfying about just mashing their bodies together, tangling limbs and tongues and no longer having to keep any space between them whatsoever.

The wall was cold but Em's skin was so, so warm, and the smells of smoke and hops were sharper here in contrast to the stale air. Em tugged and pawed at him erratically, making eager noises low in his throat. His lack of inhibition surprised Arthur. Normally they worked up to this, Arthur the one shameless and strung out on need long before Em lost control.

This wild Em was... well, thrilling, actually.

Arthur gripped harder, kissed deeper and thrust one leg between Em's. Em bucked forward, gasping. He began to grind against Arthur's thigh, and Arthur could actually _feel him getting hard,_ which was hot in a dirty schoolyard fantasy kind of way—pushing some boy down with the intent to bruise and finding other possibilities instead.

Arthur had never had that, had never allowed it. He'd never sucked boys off in the showers or let his eyes wander, never been bold or stupid or drunk enough to reach out for a mate in the dark, asking with his hands for the things he couldn't say.

He had a lot to fucking make up for.

Arthur pulled off Em's mouth, panting, "Naked. Much more naked. And less... upright."

"Seconded, thirded and fucking ayes all around," Em said. He slumped back against the wall. "Hang on, there's a switch around here someplace."

"No, wait." Arthur captured Em's hands and raised them above his head, pressing them against the cool stone.

"Arthur, what—"

"Ssh. Keep still. Just for a minute." He removed his leg from between Em's and widened his stance. When he leaned forward their bodies were aligned—chest to chest, belly to belly, cock to cock. Em's was now rigid, straining the fly of his jeans, and Arthur's had taken a decided interest in the proceedings.

Arthur tipped his forehead against Em's and just rested for a moment, breathing. "God you're a sight for sore eyes."

Em's laugh gusted against Arthur's skin. "You can't actually see me, genius." He squirmed his hips in a circle, making Arthur's breath catch in his throat.

"Well, I can sure as hell _feel_ you." Arthur pressed his swelling cock more firmly against Em's and gave his hands a squeeze. "And you feel bloody amazing, in case that wasn't clear. I should never have let you out of bed all those millions of hours ago yesterday morning."

"Mmm. You know..."

There was a pause where Arthur could only hear their laboured breathing and faint sounds of laughter from the pub. Then Em whispered, "I wasn't sure where your head was going to be at. But I'm glad it's here."

"What do you mean?"

"You told him. On the phone, when you said you were done, I knew you'd told him. You sounded so fierce."

Arthur shivered. "Yeah, it was... he was..."

Arthur released Em's hands and pulled away. He didn't know where to begin explaining, couldn't bear to repeat the hateful words. And what use would it be? All Arthur could do was keep his head down, score goals and hope his father would come round. For now, that was the only way to keep Em's job safe—to keep Em safe.

"Hey, ssh." Em plunged his fingers into Arthur's hair, kneading his scalp, tugging him close again. "It'll keep. I just wanted you to know that I knew, that I'm proud of you. That you being fierce like that actually gets my dick hard. A couple of pints in there were all your fault, you know, 'cause I was secretly celebrating."

Arthur smiled, butting his head into Em's hands. "You were celebrating your dick getting hard? Classy."

"No, lumphead, your big coming out." Em tweaked an ear, then smoothed the lobe between his thumb and forefinger. Arthur turned his head into the touch.

"Also, to be honest, the fact that you were so keen on charging out here the minute you had. I'd thought maybe you didn't really want... well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I'm an idiot. All that matters is that you're here now, and—" Em slid his hands down to Arthur's shoulders, arching into him. "Mmm, yeah. My dick _is_ hard. Again." He did that grinding hip-circle thing that made Arthur's breath stutter.

"Yes, you are an idiot." Arthur slid a hand down between them, palming Em through the taut denim. "And we should do something about that."

He loved that Em's cock was an actual _handful_ and then some, loved the way Em responded when he ground his wrist down the length, but he hated that he couldn't feel the full heat of it. He wanted it nestling bare in his palm or, better still, weighing heavy on his tongue, pushing into the back of his throat. He wanted to bury his nose in that dense thatch of hair—so much softer than it looked, Em's scent so thick there he could almost lap it up—and rub his cheek against the firm, eager flesh.

Em groaned. "Jaysus, Arthur, I want—"

"What, Em, what?" Arthur was already fumbling with Em's fly, thinking that, yes, there was a bed nearby but maybe they didn't need to get to it just yet if he could take Em apart with his mouth up against the wall. Of a secret passage. With Em being all open and eager and shamelessly vocal—and oh, fuck, he was going to come in his pants just thinking about it.

"Wait, wait." Em grabbed Arthur's hands and pulled them onto his hips. Arthur could feel him tense. "Please, would you..."

His voice fell away, and Arthur leaned in, chasing it. He kissed the corner of Em's lips, mouthed his way along his jaw. "Anything. What is it, Em? What do you need?"

Em turned his face so his lips were grazing Arthur's ear. "I'd really like you to... to fuck me."

Arthur froze. "Yeah?"

"Mmm."

_"Oh,_ I—"

Oh, Arthur had idly wondered about it, but they'd never specifically discussed it. Fuck, he'd never even thought to _ask._ Maybe because he'd been too busy enjoying being tied up in hotel rooms, getting eaten out on tables, and generally being attended to in every way possible—which, now that he thought about it, was rather selfish.

And if he'd been about to shoot in his pants at the thought of taking Em apart with his mouth, just imagine what it would be like to actually _see_ himself pushing inside Em's body. To watch him go all flushed and trembling and lost in his own pleasure, not worrying about Arthur at all.

"Um, yeah, okay," Arthur whispered. He untangled their fingers and slipped his hands beneath Em's jumper, tentatively stroking his sides and palming the high ridges of his hips. He thought about hauling those hips down onto his cock, wondered if Em would want to be taken from behind or with his ankles up around his ears or some crazy yoga pose.

Arthur was so caught up in his fantasies it took him a few moments to register that Em wasn't relaxing. He'd gone still, his body rigid with tension.

"You don't have to," Em said quietly. "We could just go to sleep; you must be all in. Or if you'd rather do something else? I only—"

"Emmett," Arthur growled, shaking him by the hips. "Oh god, that wasn't a... that wasn't me being _uncertain._ You just blew my circuits for a minute. I would like to, I would really like—no, scratch that. I would bloody _love_ to fuck you." He nuzzled in close, stroking Em's flanks. He hated the thought that Em had been nervous to ask.

"So stop whatever nonsense is doing a jig in your brain, put on your mentor hat, and let's go upstairs, okay? I think I've got the whole 'tab A in slot B' thing, but tell me, you know, your favourite positions and stuff. And if I can rabbit on about how hot your balls look jouncing around or if I should just shut up and let you pretend I'm one of those macho Russians you're always ogling on _Match of the Day."_

Em burst out laughing, trying to push Arthur away, but Arthur held on, poking his fingers into Em's waistband.

"Come on, Emrys. Give over. You know you do. What'cha got for me in there anyway, hmm?"

"Stop! Arthur, stop. You'll make me piss myself."

"Watersports, eh? That's how you want to play?"

"Ugh, you wish." Em finally dislodged Arthur's hands and squirmed away.

There was a muffled thump and a squawk. Then a bright light flared up in Arthur's face. He jumped back, shielding his eyes; a bulb was hanging in a safety cage just over his head.

"Found the switch," Em said. He was sprawled on top of Arthur's bag on the bottom of a narrow set of steps. His jumper had rucked up above his navel, and his face was red and creased with laughter. His erection, still much in evidence, was doing obscene things to his jeans, which were worn thin at the knees and crotch.

Arthur stalked towards him and hauled him to his feet. He claimed one long, nose-mashing kiss, then gave Em his best shit-eating grin. "Yes, you have," he announced. "Well done you. Now what are you going to do with him?"

They spent the climb upstairs shoving at one another with Arthur's bag and arguing whether or not puns were a sure-fire way to wilt dick.

* * *

The room was low-ceilinged and cold, but otherwise had everything one might have wished for a dirty weekend—namely, an acre of bed. Arthur figured the thing must have been built inside the room. It had sturdy posts, plenty of pillows, and a duvet with such high loft it looked like the set for a Christmas special.

They stripped hastily and raced to dive beneath the duvet. Arthur yelped when he came in contact with the chilly fabric.

"C'mere. Warms up faster this way." Em pressed close, rubbing his hands up and down Arthur's arms and flanks. And bum. And thighs. And bum again.

Arthur shivered, burrowing in, allowing himself to be petted as he nuzzled Em's neck.

Then, feeling like he should reciprocate, he wormed a hand between them and began fondling Em's balls. They'd retreated a little in the cold, but repeated stroking brought the desired result. Soon he had a whole hot, rolling handful and Em was shifting gingerly, breath going a bit ragged.

Arthur slipped his fingers lower, pressing into the silky flesh just behind Em's sac, stroking it with his middle finger.

Em's hands lost their rhythm. He parted his legs and slowly pushed forward, sending Arthur's finger sliding across the tight pucker of muscle.

"Oh, that's—" Arthur managed before Em latched onto his mouth, drinking down kisses as he began to frot against Arthur's hand. It was fucking hot, was what it was—Em greedy for Arthur's touch but never quite allowing him to push all the way _in._

Arthur started thrusting his hips as well, not much caring whether he was rutting his cock up against his own wrist or Em's belly. He knew what this felt like, this kind of aching, itchy, feathery teasing that sometimes he wanted more of and sometimes he despised, just wanting to be forced open and filled up. He was already imagining how much the tiny opening would stretch…

_But dear fucking christ if I don’t stop, I'll never get to find out,_ Arthur thought. He also realised he had no idea how Em was feeling—whether _he_ wanted more or less or just to keep on teasing himself on Arthur's fingers. 

He panicked briefly. Then he remembered one of the first bedroom lessons Em had taught him, _"Use your people words."_

He stilled, using his free hand to gently cup Em's face as he pulled back.

"Hey, you liking it just like this?" he said, trying to catch his breath. " 'Cause I'm happy to keep going, but I might come. Otherwise tell me what you want." Arthur circled the tip of his finger around Em's entrance, then rubbed across the centre. Em's eyes fluttered closed. When they opened, they were blazing. He looked _fantastic._

"But please, Em—however we do this, I'd like to see you. Watch your face. Let me have that."

Em blinked, brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because I… What do you mean, _'why?'_ I'm fond of your sex faces, alright? Fond of your face in general. You know, for a kinky devil you can be weirdly shy." Arthur pressed his finger in again and watched as Em's lips parted around an involuntary gasp.

"Fuck," Arthur breathed. "Em, you're—why shouldn't I want to look at you? You are a ridiculously beautiful man."

Em's eyebrows climbed up his forehead, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. _"Beautiful,_ Arthur? Really?"

"Handsome," Arthur amended. "Stunning. Masculine allure in the fucking flesh. Whatever. Point is, I—"

Em surged forward, covering Arthur's mouth with two fingers, pressing ardent kisses to his forehead and the bridge of his nose. "Shut up. Fine. But don't you dare come yet," he whispered. "And fingers first, lots of fingers. And lube. It's been a while since I've taken anything as thick as you."

Arthur hid his grin in a pillow as he pulled away, but he couldn't resist saying, "Good." He reached down to root in his bag, trying not to let any cold air into the now-toasty bed. "Will and I stopped for coffee and petrol before we left civilisation. Plenty of condoms, but this is the only lube they had, apart from all the fruity stuff."

Em took one look at the meagre foil packets in Arthur's hand and scrunched up his face. "Uh-uh. No way. Use the stuff in the nightstand."

"In the nightstand?!" Arthur checked and, sure enough, there was a small bottle of Maximus, along with a box of condoms and a packet of baby wipes. "Mate, _please_ tell me your mum didn't put these here."

Em looked at him askance. "Why? Your sister gave you butt plugs."

"But that's," Arthur spluttered. "That's different. It's not like she left one lubed up and strategically placed for me to find when she knew you were coming over."

"Arthur, I'll have you know that I'm very proud of my sex-positive mam."

"Oh, I didn't mean to—"

_"And_ that I helped make up the room, codface, so no need to feel embarrassed. C'mon, get back over here, I'm getting cold."

"That's because you've no extra padding," Arthur groused, dumping the loot on a pillow. He snagged the lube and reached for Em's waist, smoothing a hand across his flat stomach. Em shivered.

"See?" he said. He shimmied down between Em's legs, pausing to mouth a kiss onto the skin stretched tight over his hipbone. "Here, lift your knees so I can get at you properly."

They took turns with fingers, Arthur sliding one in to explore until Em, eyes closed and breathing heavily, worked one of his own along in beside it. Arthur let him take over for a bit, guiding their movements while he pressed chaste kisses to whatever parts of Em he could reach. He kept flicking his eyes up to Em's face, trying to learn the small tremors and quirks that meant pleasure or discomfort.

When Em's eyelids started fluttering and he bit down on his lower lip, Arthur started to pull out in preparation for adding a third finger. He was immensely proud of himself when Em mumbled, "Ngh, yeah. Another."

On three, Em really started squirming, and Arthur had to concentrate in order to follow his lead and not jab him somewhere uncomfortable. It was a good thing though, because it kept Arthur from getting too giddy about all the heat and tight squeezey muscles and the lovely pink flush that was spreading across Em's chest.

Em's cock was fully unsheathed and standing proud by the time he stilled and panted, "More. 'S good. Wait. Give us a kiss first."

Arthur slowly eased his fingers out and propped himself up on his elbows. Em curled forward to meet him.

"How you doing?" Em murmured just before their lips touched.

"Stop worrying about me," Arthur said, licking at Em's lower lip, at the spot where he'd been biting it. "Just... use, me Em. Let go and enjoy yourself. Like I'm just a cock and hands and whatever other parts you need."

Em smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. He lifted his free hand to toy with Arthur's fringe. "Are you even real?" he whispered. "No, ssh, don't answer that. I don't care if you are a figment. Give me more lube. More fingers."

Somehow, in all the slicking up and aligning of wrists they skipped four and went straight to five—three of Arthur's and two of Em's. They couldn't go very deep, and Arthur could tell that Em was forcibly holding himself still, just waiting for his muscles to relax. He rubbed his thumb over the taut band of skin above his knuckles, thinking about it being stretched round the base of his cock, and swallowed.

He looked up to find Em watching him, eyes hooded, lips wet from their kiss. Em began to move, very slowly, keeping his gaze locked on Arthur.

"Thinking about your cock in me?"

Arthur nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Me too. Will you—ah, jaysus—get yourself ready? Just, yeah, pull your fingers out slowly."

Arthur's hands were shaking slightly as he donned a condom and slicked himself up. Em kept on fingering himself, arching up off the mattress with a whine as he tried to get the angle right to go deeper. Arthur had to pause several times to clench the base of his cock, taking deep breaths.

When he was ready, he reached down and rubbed his fingers across Em's wrist, waiting for him to still. Em pulled his fingers out, smiling lazily, then stretched like he'd just woken up.

"Ready?"

"Mmm. How should I...?"

"On your back. You good?"

"I'm _fine,"_ Arthur said as he lay back. "Just... on edge. But like I said, stop worrying about me. I'll hold off as long as I can, think about suicide sprints or some shit. Just—"

"Arthur, oh, Arthur." Em was suddenly crawling over him, kissing his stomach and chest, sucking on his throat. "Look, it was a lovely offer, but what you said just now? If I wanted to get screwed by a disembodied cock, there are places I could go. With you, unfortunately, I want _all_ the parts. All the fucking parts, okay? Even your... your daft brain and your stupid mouth."

"Whoa, hey. Don't hold back."

Em gave Arthur a sound kiss and scooted back, straddling him properly.

"Well, it's maddening, sometimes, is what it is. You wear a man down. That time in Wessex—" He gripped the base of Arthur's shaft.

"Once I'm seated you hold on here for as long as you need to, alright? And tap my knee if you want me to stop." He knelt up, thighs stretched taut, and guided Arthur's cock between his legs. He reached behind himself with his other hand, and Arthur felt fingers sliding over his glans before it was snugged up against warm, slick flesh.

He dearly wished he wasn't wearing a condom.

"Arthur?"

"Wha—? Oh, yeah, okay. Tap your knee. So, you're just going to— _gnh, hah, ahfuck."_

Arthur grabbed desperately for the base of his cock as Em removed his hands and pushed himself down, eyelids fluttering closed. He paused only once, breathing heavily through his nose, then bottomed out on Arthur's fist with a guttural moan. He opened his eyes.

"Oh," he breathed. "Yes. That _is_ nice."

Awed, Arthur reached out with his free hand to stroke Em's thigh, his hip, the trail of dark hair below his navel. His cock was _inside..._ It was like the grip of a fist and the suction of a mouth all rolled into one, but more than that—more seamless, more _something._

He pulled his hands away without thinking, simply wanting to see his whole cock swallowed up, wanting to get as deep as he could. Em grunted and shifted his hips, changing the angle as Arthur pushed all the way inside.

"Emmett, you're so... god, this is what it feels like, when you're in me? How do you stand it?"

Em smiled down at him. "Hrm? Oh—ah—I know, right?" With a little wince he leaned forward, lifting partway off and bracing his hands on Arthur's chest. Arthur automatically reached for his hips, grateful to have something familiar to hold on to, thinking _Yes, yes. See, that's a perfect fucking fit._

"So, at Wess— _ah_ —ex," Em said, rocking back in one smooth thrust, "I thought I'd just have a taste, you know? One wank fantasy moment before you went, um." He pulled off partway again. "Back in the closet, or running off to the bathhouses of the rich and famous. But _no."_ He shoved back with a loud exhale, then started up a slow rhythm with his hips, using shallow, rolling thrusts that lovingly squeezed the base of Arthur's cock.

Arthur took a deep breath and held on.

"Because your _cock_ is apparently a gateway drug," Em continued, a bit breathless now. "I only wanted more. And you're so fucking _shiny_ and so fucking _bold._ And you just kept coming at me with your fucking _puppy_ eyes and all that need blazing off your stupid face—yeah, exactly like that." Em surged forward for a kiss, tightening his muscles to keep Arthur in place.

"I watched you," Em whispered against Arthur's lips. "Watched you go from being so torn up about wanting it to just wanting it all, saying you wanted it all with _me,_ and that is still—that won't ever stop being—unbearably _hot."_

Em thrust back on the last word, hissing as his cock smacked against Arthur's stomach. He dug his fingers into Arthur's chest and started grinding down onto him in earnest, every so often adding a swivelling, clenching movement of his hip and arse muscles that made Arthur whine and buck up beneath him.

"Mmm, yeah, go on. You can move," Em panted. "Just, keep it smooth. Let me do the heavy lifting. And keep your hips just—ah, _ah!_ " Em arched his head back, mouth open. 

Arthur canted his hips, squeezing his arse cheeks together, and Em unleashed a stream of swearwords and near-nonsense. He'd obviously found his perfect seat, that angle where his prostate was being rubbed just the right way on every thrust. 

For Arthur, that moment always played a trick on him; it made him feel like his pleasure was racing out ahead of him and that, if he could just catch it, just keep the right rhythm, he could ride it indefinitely instead of slamming into the wall of his orgasm.

"That's it, love," he said, words lost in the obscene litany. He wanted to keep Em on that high as long as possible, wanted to keep him flushed and swearing and mindlessly riding his cock. "Oh yes, you're— _fucking hell."_

Em's balls were already gathered up close to his body, dusky and plump, and a string of clear precum was doing its best to attach itself to Arthur's belly.

Arthur let go of one hip and, using three fingers the way Em had shown him, made a cage around Em's balls and the base of his cock, gradually increasing the pressure until Em's eyes flew open and he looked down at Arthur in something like shock, gasping out, "Ungh, you, _fuckyeah!"_

Em sped up, his rhythm going a little hectic and jerky.

Arthur knew he was done for. He'd only just been hanging on with all the steady pressure by letting his mind float, focusing on watching Em and imagining how he must feel. But now, with Em's body juddering unpredictably under his hands, with his wide, wet mouth panting out filthy endearments and his eyes locked on Arthur's, there was no distancing himself.

"Em, fuck, I'm gonna—can I?"

"Oh, _yes._ Yesyesyes." Em pressed his thumbs into Arthur's nipples and clamped down heavily on his cock, muscles still jerking.

With a hoarse cry, Arthur squeezed Em's hip and thrust up off the mattress. His orgasm started deep within, but then it felt like Em took it over. It felt like it was being wrung out of him, one heaving pulse at a time, until there was no tension left in his body.

Boneless and come-dazed, he looked up at Em's long, lean thighs. At his sweat-slicked torso, pert nipples, and broad rack of shoulders. At his dear face, transformed now into something triumphant and a little intimidating.

It suddenly seemed important to make the depth of his feelings clear, but all that came out was a mumbled, "Mmm, where'd my legs go? Can't feel my legs."

Em batted Arthur's hands away, a smile playing round his lips, and began fisting his own cock with blinding speed. "Lookit you," he murmured, clenching his arse round Arthur's cock. "I knacked my shiny pony, wore him. All. Fucking. Out."

Arthur blinked at the slick purple flesh rapidly peeking in and out of the circle of Em's fingers. He tried to sit up, thinking hazily that he'd wanted to _taste_ it, dammit—and what the fuck had ever happened to that brilliant idea?—but only got as far as propping himself on his elbows, because, oh, yes, Em still had his cock gripped tightly in his arse.

"Geehere," Arthur slurred, tilting his face up. "Give it here. Want to taste." He saw Em's eyes go wide just before he closed his own. He heard a strangled moan, then hot cum was spattering his chest, just enough hitting his chin that he could gather it with his tongue. "Mmm. That's the stuff."

Arthur flopped back, utterly spent. His head landed between two pillows, unused condom packets rustling against his cheek. He was wondering whether or not he had the energy to move when Em began to pull off.

Arthur winced as his cock slipped from Em's body. The colder air felt brutal on his sensitized flesh. In fact, it seemed like chilly air was seeping in all over.

"Em," he whined. Em made a shushing noise. Arthur felt the condom being stripped off and—after a brief amount of time in which he just _might_ have kipped off—Arthur found himself back in a cosy duvet cocoon. He head was properly pillowed, he was cum-free, and he was alone.

He lifted his head and saw that the door was ajar, a light shining in the passage beyond. There was a clanking and sighing of pipes from somewhere within the walls. He heard steps coming down the passage and closed his eyes again. He heard the door close, then the creak of floorboards, but Em didn't immediately come back to bed. Puzzled, Arthur ventured a peek. 

Em was clad only in his woolly socks and Arthur's shirt, holding it wrapped closely round him like a dressing gown. Shivering, he shuffled towards the small hearth that played host to a space heater. As Arthur watched, Em crouched, spine curving into a compact arc, white buttocks poking out from beneath the even whiter shirttails. He fiddled with the controls, still half-hugging himself, chin resting on his knees. By the set of his face, the heater was an old adversary. When at last the elements began to glow, his face eased, and he held his hands up as if before a bonfire.

Arthur was about to speak, to make some crack about cavemen or country bumpkins, when Em gathered his wrists to his face, burying his nose in the gaping cuffs and inhaling. 

He wanted to laugh, wanted to say, "I'm right here, you twit. What are you doing all the way over there mooning over my shirtsleeves?"

Instead, he closed his eyes. Because it wasn't really funny, was it? Arthur had been relentless in his pursuit of Em, had made no secret of his determination to have a relationship, despite the difficulties. He'd given himself to Em every way he knew how, and their possessions—hell, even their friends—were already just the nicest bit commingled. Yet somehow Em had come to believe that no one would ever stay. 

This tore Arthur up inside, made all the wisecracks taste sour. For fuck's sake, he'd come _this_ close to braining his own father earlier, all on Em's account. He was hardly going to do a runner.

He heard the snick of the lamp cord being pulled, and the red behind his eyelids faded to black. There was a flap and rustle of fabric—his shirt being discarded—then the mattress dipped. Arthur waited a moment before rolling into the weight. He groped for whatever part of Em was nearest—an elbow, apparently—and gave it a kiss.

"Uh, Arthur? That's—"

"Bony, I know. I missed you. Now get in here before your bits freeze off." Arthur tucked the long limbs in round him until they were comfortably entangled, Em's head snugged up beneath his chin.

As he listened to Em's yawns and murmurs give way to deep, even breaths, Arthur made a vow. He didn’t know how to _prove_ to Em that he fully intended to cling to this new life with him—just like one of those damn dangly-limbed Velcro dragons they sold in the club shop—but he would make it a priority to find out.


	30. Local Talent

The first time Arthur woke, he was laughing. The room was grey with pre-dawn light. He had the vague sense that he'd got away with something—pulled off some ridiculous caper or stunt—but the actual dream fled as soon as he tried to catch hold of it. He was left with an armful of startled Em and the realisation that he desperately needed a piss.

"Arfla? Whazzahm?" Eyes screwed shut, Em smacked his lips a few times before attempting to settle back onto Arthur's chest

"Sorry, fit to burst," Arthur said. He managed to ease out from under Em, dragging a pillow down to serve in his stead. Em duly moulded himself along it, clutching it tight. "Which one's the loo again?"

Em had gestured at various doors last night as they'd made their way down the passage, but Arthur hadn't paid proper attention. He'd been too preoccupied with the view directly in front of him—the cruelly snug jeans and exposed stripe of neck between scarf and jumper that _certainly_ wasn't going to lick itself.

Arthur ran his fingers along that same patch of skin now, tugging on the thick swirl of hair at Em's nape. "Em? Toilet?"

Em cracked an eye open. "Dirraht."

"Third right?"

"Mmm."

"Cheers." Arthur gave Em's hair another fond tug and clambered out of bed.

The passage was freezing. After relieving himself in what was, quite literally, a water closet, Arthur hastened back to their room.

The space heater, still glowing away, had taken the chill out of the air, but it was the blissful warmth of the bed Arthur was after. He slid in behind Em, huddling close and rubbing his chilly feet along Em's calves. Em huffed and mumbled something about socks, but he didn't pull away. He reached back and pulled Arthur's arm round him, wriggling until they were comfortably spooned together.

Not for the first time, Arthur wondered what it would be like to have this every night, a shared bed in a shared space that, no matter what hour Arthur got home from an away match or Em had to get up for work in the morning, would guarantee time spent face to face and skin to skin. 

He supposed it could get claustrophobic, knew well what being cooped up in close quarters could do to men's tempers, but somehow he didn't think this would happen with Em. They knew how to give one another space—hell, they had ample practice at it every day at Knightswood—and Arthur didn't think sleeping naked with Em would ever get old. Even when Em _was_ old.

Arthur chuckled, imagining Em with wild grey hair, sprawled out on a mattress in nothing but his woolly socks.

Em jerked awake. "What now? What's so fu—" he yawned, squeezing Arthur's hand. "Funny. What's so bleeding funny?"

"Your wrinkly bum."

There was a flurry of elbows and knees as Em rolled over. His face was scrunched into a pout, the corners of his lips and eyes sticky from sleep. He tugged Arthur's hand down and clapped it to his arse. "M'bum's not wrinkly."

"True." Arthur spread his fingers and squeezed. "But it will be, someday." He watched Em's face unfold, lips spreading in a hesitant smile.

"What, when I'm sixty-four?"

Arthur jiggled the handful of taut muscle. "Nah, it'll just have started sagging by then. I'm thinking more like eighty."

Em's eyes drifted closed, but his smile remained. He made a little humming sound as he shifted his hips, pressing back into Arthur's hand. "Planning on still being around then, are you?"

It was said lightly, but Arthur felt a wild stab of longing. Because, yes. He did plan on still being around, or at least he _wanted…_

Unbidden, his father's words came crowding into his head. _"Put all this nonsense out of your head, Arthur. Get yourself a girlfriend, or preferably a wife."_

Arthur swallowed. He tugged his right arm free and cupped it to Em's face. He could see the flicker of Em's eyes beneath the closed lids, the wavering edges of his smile.

"Of course," he said, trying to match Em's casual tone and failing miserably.

"Oh really?"

Arthur swallowed again, tongue caught on all the things he wanted to say, all the promises he couldn’t yet make. Frustrated, he traced the edges of Em's lips with his thumb.

"Well, Emrys, _someone_ will to need to keep you in hideous cardigans. And help you find your false teeth in the morning." Arthur watched as Em's smile broadened. Teasing, that was it. Arthur could do teasing. For now.

"Hmm, I expect they'll be stuck in your false arse."

"Oi, spindly!" Arthur gave Em's bottom a pinch. "Yours will wither long before mine does."

"And it's a good thing, too. Your arse is the only reason I can see for keeping you around." Em snaked his hand down and patted Arthur's bum.

Arthur could see the quivering muscles round Em's lips as he pressed them together, trying not to laugh. "Liar," he whispered, putting his lips up to the shell of Em's ear. "You think I'm gorgeous all over. And amazingly versatile in bed. Topping isn't half-bad, you know. Hard work, but—"

Em's eyes flew open, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. "You thought _that_ was hard work? That was like twenty—no, ten—per cent you lying back looking gorgeous with your cock out while I did all the legwork. You might as well have been a carousel pony—"

Arthur surged forward with an aggrieved cry. He tried to pin Em to the mattress, but Em shoved back, spluttering and laughing, all wiry arms and evasive hips. Eventually Em got a leg between Arthur's, letting out a triumphant, "Ha!" as he flipped Arthur onto his back and levered himself up. Quick as a flash he was sitting astride, pinning Arthur's wrists above his head. His cock, hot and hard and already leaking slick, was like a brand on Arthur's skin. Arthur felt a dizzy swoop of arousal, low in his belly.

"Now then, you lazy old nag. Let's get something clear."

Em opened his mouth and began lecturing—some shite about true versatility versus being a bone-idle service top—but all Arthur saw was lips. Pink lips. Pink, generous lips with a pert little bow that never quite flattened out, even when it was stretched wide.

With a grunt, Arthur wrenched one hand free and pulled Em down for a kiss.

"Mpf, Arth—" Em protested, just before their mouths came together.

In between kisses, Em called Arthur several unflattering names. Arthur figured he couldn’t be too upset though, what with the way he hitched his hips forward, searching for friction.

Arthur tugged his other hand free and jammed it between them, palming Em's cock and pressing it firmly against his own stomach. Em gasped into his mouth, hands scrabbling for purchase on Arthur's hair as he began to pump his hips in earnest. He was sitting far enough forward that Arthur's swelling cock just barely brushed against his arse on each backthrust, skidding in and out of the cleft.

It was a kind of torture, but Arthur didn’t exactly mind. Em's eagerness reminded him of the night before, only this time Arthur knew alcohol had nothing to do with it—that this was all Em's naked desire, encouraged by whatever trust they'd built between them.

And here Arthur was, lying to Em. Or at least not telling him the whole truth.

_"Your friend."_ That was how Uther had referred to Em. Calm, dismissive, as if Em was an old schoolmate who'd dropped round for a cuppa. As if he hadn't named the constellations he'd seen in Arthur's moles or washed his asshole in the shower. As if he hadn't been the one to make Arthur feel like he was worth something regardless of endorsements, match stats or rumoured transfer fees.

For fuck's sake, he had to say _something._

Em was dragging the flat of his tongue up the side of Arthur's neck, pausing to kiss and suck—and _oh,_ that was going to leave marks—and whisper suggestions about where else he wanted to stick his cock. It took every ounce of willpower Arthur had to grip the back of his neck and pull him off.

"Em, wait." Arthur shivered as cooler air brushed the damp skin where Em's mouth had been.

Em whined a response, but he kept on thrusting, fucking into the snug cave between Arthur's palm and belly, now slippery with mingled sweat and precum.

"God, Em, you're…" Arthur couldn’t resist licking at Em's lips, nipping at the fullest parts before stilling him with a whispered, "Wait," and a gentle squeeze of his cock.

Em's breath was hot and ragged against Arthur's face, his eyes wide and dark in the low light.

Arthur sucked in a breath. "Em, I want you to know. I was serious, just now—well, I was teasing, but I was also serious. About the whole future thing."

Em tilted his head, frowning slightly.

"I want to live with you, alright?" Arthur rushed on. "At mine, or we can find somewhere new. And I want to be… Well, I certainly don’t want to fuck anyone else. If you do, we can work something out—"

Arthur swallowed. "No, never mind. Fuck that." Maybe he was unenlightened and horribly old-fashioned, but he just _couldn't…_ He couldn’t happily send Em off to backrooms and glory holes or watch as he reduced some other man to fuck-dazed gibberish. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Please, Em, _please_ let me be enough. I’d do anything for you; you know that, right?"

Em pulled back abruptly, sitting up. His face had gone blank. "What?"

"I mean, not right now," Arthur blurted, thinking, _Oh god, too soon. Too soon and crap timing, you fucking needy wanker. You could have at least waited 'til he finished._ "But someday."

The sweat they'd worked up between them cooled rapidly, leaving Arthur feeling clammy and bereft, his erection a hot embarrassment mashed up against Em's arse.

"Only if you want," Arthur muttered, letting his hands fall away. He clenched them awkwardly at his sides, turning his head so he wasn't staring down Em's rampant cock. "But maybe you'd rather—I mean, Will's great, yeah, and you two go way back. It's just that I kind of hate my flat. I mean, I like it better when you're— _oh."_

Em's fingers were like a vice on Arthur's jaw, his mouth almost brutal as he dove down and rubbed their lips together. "Don’t you fucking dare," he whispered. "Don’t you dare back down. Of course you're—jaysus, say it again, Arthur."

"Uh, which bit, exactly? About the flat, or the fucking or—"

"Say you don’t want anyone else."

"I don't!"

"And that you'd—"

"Really like to share a flat. Or a house, maybe one of those places out by—"

"No, the _other_ bit." Em stilled, hands cradling Arthur's face. He was too close for Arthur to see properly, a blur of skin and shadow.

"I'd do anything for you," Arthur whispered. He felt a bit pathetic, but also as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Because, pathetic or not, it was true.

He closed his eyes, curled his hands round Em's knees. "And not just in bed. Em, I… Christ, this sounds stupid, but I've never wanted to impress anyone half so much in my life as I did your mum last night, alright? And that's including Coach, so I'm clearly—"

"Talking too much."

"But you—"

"Shut up, Arthur. Shut up and let me just—"

Then everything became a fierce grapple of kisses and limbs, and Arthur abandoned big future thoughts for the more immediate pursuit of getting his hands on as much skin as possible. They wound up on their sides, facing one another. There was a clash of wrists as they both reached down.

"Shite," Arthur hissed.

"Hush, here, let me," Em murmured. He pulled Arthur's arms up round his neck and shifted closer, aligning their hips. He gathered their bare cocks together in his fist, then paused for a moment, breath coming in soft gusts against Arthur's cheek.

Arthur twitched, feeling as if he might crawl out of his skin if Em didn't bloody well get on with it. He was just about to growl out something to the effect, when Em brushed his lips across Arthur's temple.

"Of _course_ you're enough, you daft creature," he whispered. "Of course you are. You're damn near everything, you." Then he plunged his tongue into Arthur's mouth and began to jerk them off with slow, bruising strokes, nothing between them but their own slick.

* * *

The second time Arthur woke, bright light was streaming in through the windows. The heat in the room was almost stifling, there was a knee digging into his side, and the fuzz on his belly was crusted with dried cum.

"Shower?" he croaked when he felt the knee shift.

" 'S only a bath," came the muffled reply. There was a brief commotion beneath the duvet, then Em's head emerged, half his hair stuck to his head and the other half looking as if he'd been licking the mains. He grinned blearily at Arthur. "But it's practically a pool. Big enough for two, at any rate."

The cooler air in the passage felt good on Arthur's skin as he followed Em to the bathroom. The old clawfoot was, indeed, big enough for two. It was nowhere near as big as the ice bath at the Citadel, but Arthur agreed with Em that it would be a sorry waste of hot water to fill it twice.

Arthur checked his messages while waiting for it to fill. There were several from Hector—agitated, desperate, worried, resigned—and one from Morgana, who informed Arthur that she was proud of him, despite his being a foul-mouthed deserter. 

There were, however, none from Uther. Arthur's heart had raced when he'd recognised the number for one of the landlines at Tintagel House, but it was only the guesthouse manager, enquiring as to whether sir would be returning anytime soon.

Uneasy, Arthur switched his mobile off and set it next to the sink.

Em had been bustling about while Arthur was on the phone, fetching shampoo and towels and checking the water temperature. He'd feigned indifference, but Arthur had caught the lingering glances.

"Anything important?" he said, straightening up from where he'd been bent over the taps. He scrubbed his knuckles self-consciously over his hair, nose wrinkling when he encountered a crusty patch.

Arthur couldn't help but smile at the sight. "Nah. Not unless you believe Hector that the question of whether or not to sign with Excalibur is a matter of utmost urgency."

"The razors? Like those, 'Make shaving legendary,' adverts?" Em's face broke open in a crazed grin. "That would be—"

"Stop! Don't say it."

"No, but—"

"Seriously, don't." Arthur held up a finger as he climbed into the steaming water. "Ah, fuck, that's lovely. We should totally have one of these."

Still grinning like a lunatic, Em slipped in at the opposite end. "So we should," he replied, then went a bit pink about the ears when Arthur caught his gaze. Em hadn't said a word on the subject of eventually moving in together, but it was clear he'd been thinking about it.

Arthur groped for Em's ankle beneath the water, smiling as he leaned back. If need be, he'd refit his bathroom.

"I wasn't going to take the piss, though, about Excalibur. I think it'd be brilliant—sort of fitting, you know, in more ways than one. According to Will, their managing director is gay; he's met him through some business thing. Not sure how out he is, but it can't hurt, right?"

"Oh please, Emrys. You just want to see my face up on hoardings. Blanket the EU with your own personal wank fantasies."

Em rolled his eyes. "They'd have to read, 'Warning: Size of head may be larger than it appears.' " He tossed a bar of soap at Arthur's chest. "But speaking of fantasies—go on then, stud, give us a show."

They scrubbed up at opposite ends for a bit, trading banter and splashes, decidedly not talking about any of the big things. It felt, to Arthur, like they were playing house. Then Em offered to wash his hair and Arthur turned around, settling himself between Em's legs, and suddenly he was no longer playing house, because he was _home._

Here, with his toes scrunched up against brass fittings and a slippery, bony backrest, with clever fingers meandering across his scalp and suds threatening to slide into his eyes, he was home. He was home because he was with this man.

The realization was sharp, breath-stealing. Arthur tensed.

"Arthur?" Em paused in his ministrations. "You okay?"

"I'm—" Arthur gave in. He allowed himself to go boneless, head lolling back on Em's chest. "I'm brilliant, Emmett, absolutely brilliant," he said, meaning every word.

So when, after a long silence, Em said, "So, am I to take it your father's all right with us then?" Arthur didn't wince or shout or try to murder the soap. He only sighed.

"Hardly," he said, trailing his fingers idly through Em's leg hair. "But…" He found himself spilling much more of the tale than he'd intended to: Uther's expectations and Morgana's courage; the missing photos; the misunderstandings; Arthur's ultimatum.

He didn't mention his father's threats though. He told himself that editing the encounter wasn't lying, not really.

"I knew it wasn't the time for it," Arthur concluded. "He was in a mood, drunk as he ever gets, but he kept going on about Viv and bloody weddings. I just couldn’t stand it anymore, and a part of me wanted to know, to _really_ know…"

Arthur trailed off, his hand gesture sending ripples across the surface of the water.

"You wanted his worst," Em said quietly. "It's not all that uncommon."

"Mmm. Bit fucked though."

They were silent for a time, Em continuing to massage dying bubbles into Arthur's scalp under the guise of hair washing.

"Honestly? I think it's less the gay thing than the ruining his plans thing. My whole life, every little thing—any deviation from what he expects—it's like..." Arthur gestured again, his hands breaking the surface, flinging sprays of soapy water up the sides of the tub.

"It's always such a fucking battle. With Morgana—when she argues with him—he laughs and calls it high spirits; with me, it's defiance. Hell, he'd probably have reacted the same if I told him I was eloping with Elena and joining VSO."

Em barked out a laugh, dislodging Arthur's head. "I can just about picture that. You and Ellie, I mean, blazing blond humanitarian trails across the former empire. Poverty would flee before your mighty—"

Arthur dunked his head beneath the water, deliberately splashing as he rubbed his hands through his scalp to get rid of any lingering shampoo. When he re-emerged, he scooted round and knelt between Em's legs. "Yeah, well…"

Em quirked an eyebrow.

Arthur hadn't a clue what he'd been about to say. All he could see was the wide, frank blue of Em's eyes, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"He'll come round," Arthur said, willing Em to believe him, willing it to be true. He reached out, tracing the line of Em's jaw and the sharp jut of his collarbones. "If he wants me in his life, he'll have to, Em. Because this isn't negotiable."

Em shivered, his nipples pebbling where they peeped above the water line. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, instead looking at Arthur with such open admiration Arthur couldn't stand it.

"Come on, you," he muttered. He reached out to tweak a nipple, then grabbed the shampoo. "Your turn. Never been trumps in the mum department, but I'm fairly certain you shouldn't go round for breakfast with spunk in your hair."

* * *

Arthur's first proper look at Ealdor was the small courtyard behind the Dragon's Egg, just beyond the passage where the skips were stored. It was a beautiful late December day—cold but clear, no trace of the lowering skies that usually made winter feel so dismal.

He drew in a deep breath, pulling a face when he caught a whiff of petrol, onions, and chip grease.

"Rarefied country air my arse."

Em looked back over his shoulder, smirking. "Would you prefer a nice bouquet of manure and sheep dip? Because, believe me, that could be arranged."

Arthur shook his head vigorously. "Nooo, but." He grabbed for Em's hand, tangling their fingers together. Em started, looking around nervously, and for a moment Arthur truly hated himself. It shouldn't be like this. Not anywhere, but especially not in Em's home town.

Then he rallied, squeezing Em's hand. "This okay with you?"

Em's smile was blinding. He squeezed back, ducking his head in what Arthur assumed was a nod. "There's a back way to my mam's, if you'd prefer, through the alley there, or we can go out to the High Street and around the corner, get a view of the town."

"The High Street, please. Unless—oh god, Emrys, you're ashamed of me, aren't you? That's why you snuck me up a secret staircase last night. Didn't want everyone knowing you were dating a lowly, albeit incredibly handsome, 'baller." 

With a snort of laughter, Em tugged Arthur past the skips, out towards the street. "Oh, no worries," he said. "Round these parts, I'm well known for my crap taste in blokes."

"Oi! Lay off the ego, please. I can't play without it." Arthur tugged Em close and attempted to get him in a headlock. They tussled their way out onto the street. Then, signalling his surrender, Arthur slowly reached for Em's hand and tucked it into his pocket.

He was wearing a loaner from the Egg, a hulking parka lined with genuine sheepskin that still smelt of genuine sheep. It was warm though, and Em—who was only wearing his thin jumper—huddled close to Arthur's side as they made their way up the pavement, Em pointing out various shops and the distant outlines of the local pitch with brisk nods of his head.

They were at the upper end of the High Street, adjacent a green, so there wasn't much through traffic, but a couple of people on bicycles called out greetings as they passed. Em raised a hand in response; Arthur slapped a smile on his face and did his best to ignore his instinct to hide. He told himself he needed to get used to this, because this was how it should be, every damn day.

* * *

Hunith's was a Victorian terrace job, made of the same cheery yellow brick as its neighbours. The door, painted a deep, rich blue, was festooned with a bizarre passel of greenery. Arthur spotted sage, kale and leeks in amongst the typical Christmas holly.

"Em, why does your mum have salad on her door?"

"Ah, that's one of Callie's," Em explained as he let them in. "The one from the pub last night, who was so keen on your charms? She does them for all her friends. It's an old custom, for protection."

"Protection from what?"

Em shrugged, then glanced at Arthur, his expression grave. "Will reckons it's the ASBO rabbits."

Arthur burst out laughing.

"Emmett? Is that you?"

Hunith appeared in a doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel. And while Arthur may not have been trumps in the mum department, he had had a bit of practice with Gareth's, so he swallowed his laughter, screwed up his courage and bussed her on the cheek. 

It clearly startled her, but she patted his arm and bade him welcome to her kitchen, and he even got a bit of a scold for walking out with a wet head in winter. This gave Arthur the urge to kiss her again, but he resisted, not wanting to send her into a full-blown panic.

Instead, he wished her a belated Happy Christmas and offered to pour the tea. At that, her flustered smile turned genuine. By the time they'd all settled round the kitchen table, Arthur enthusing over the homemade bread and thick-cut rashers of griddled bacon, her eyes were crinkling up at the corners, just like Em's did when his grin got too big for his face.

Apart from a few awkward moments—being asked how he'd slept ( _Covered in your son's cum, thanks very much!_ ); learning that said bacon had once been a local pig called Maxine ( _Bit late for introductions, wouldn't you say?_ )—the meal passed pleasantly. Will had already eaten, so he regaled Arthur with stories of his and Em's childhood in the village, and Arthur was more than content to just tuck in and listen. He was ravenous, for one, plus it meant he got to observe Em's reactions.

He gesticulated a lot, ears flushed bright red as he tried to talk round bulging mouthfuls of food. Various stages of amusement and embarrassment played out on his expressive face. Arthur thought Em seemed younger here—messier, a bit softer at the edges. He tucked this information away and smiled into his tea.

Hunith chimed in from time to time, but she, too, mainly sat, sipping her tea and going over a stack of purchase orders for the pub. Every so often, Arthur caught her watching him thoughtfully—watching him watch _Em,_ no doubt—and felt his own ears grow warm.

It was nice though, being treated like a proper boyfriend. Threat. Whatever.

When they'd finished, Arthur expressed an interest in seeing Em's old room, but was told there wasn't much to see.

"Not unless you're keen on pinholes and old Blu-Tack," Will said.

"I rent it out on occasion," Hunith explained. "Mainly during the festival season, when the inns are overrun."

Em sighed. "She made me take down all my posters when I left for uni. Thought my dissection diagrams might give people the creeps."

"Not to mention all your man-candy," Will added. "I know it's hard for you lads to accept, but papering a room with posters of sweaty men in small shorts is not everyone's cup of feng shui."

"Hey! Those weren't for... Those were my idols."

Rolling her eyes, Hunith stood. She gathered her paperwork, murmuring, "Back in a tic, boys," and disappeared through an adjoining door.

As soon as she'd gone, Arthur rounded on Will. "Who did he have over the bed?"

"Packie Bonner, mate. Italia '90."

"The penalty save? Massive for the Irish, to be sure, but why—" Arthur turned to Em. "You fancied Bonner, really? Nice big lad, but I always thought he was a bit horsey."

Em spurted a mouthful of tea, while Will went into a paroxysm of laughter.

"Am I missing something?"

"I didn't _fancy_ him, you twit, not like that. Arthur, a good third of this town is Irish; my own da was… Anyway, point is that Bonner was a real hero round these parts. For me, especially, when I was keeping for the Irregulars."

Em wiped his mouth and set his cup down, glaring at Will. "Which you well know, so stop messing him about."

Will shrugged, eyes merry.

"Wait, Em, you were a _keeper?_ For your local side?"

Em nodded and glanced nervously at Arthur. "Um, yes? Have I not mentioned that?"

"No! You most certainly—"

Just then Hunith returned, and Arthur closed his mouth.

She'd obviously overheard their exchange, however, as she regarded her son with a keen eye and said, "Emmett, you've never told Arthur you used to play?"

"I knew he used to play, just not for an _actual_ side," Arthur clarified. Em had a tatty Ealdor Irregulars T-shirt he slept in sometimes, but Arthur hadn't given it a second thought. He'd assumed Em's playing days had been spent in schoolyards or informal pub leagues, that type of thing.

"They were in the old Third Division, barely, and it was only for a few years," Em muttered. "With the School Boys' side. Doesn't really count."

"Three years, my love," Hunith said, her tone sharp. "Three years worrying you were going to have all your fingers smashed or take a boot to the face—and that was just on the _pitch,_ never mind the ignorant shite those boys got up to around town—so don't you go telling me it doesn't count."

"Alright, Mam, alright. Calm down. I didn't mean it like that."

Mother and son faced off, regarding one another with fond exasperation. Clearly it was a well-worn argument.

Will slid his chair nearer, leaning towards Arthur. "He had this ritual, where he'd sort of take a running leap and try to mimic Bonner's pose before he crashed onto the bed."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Night before a match he'd do all the voices too, all the commentary and crowd noises while he took dive after dive in just his pants, pasty limbs flailing about. Then he'd say this poem, right? Like this special little pledge to Bonner about—"

"Right, well," Em interrupted, hastily pushing back from the table. He stood and began clearing dishes, ears flaming. "Arthur, care for a walk, work off some of that bacon? There's a good view of the old quarries from the top of New Hill."

Hunith set her own empty teacup atop the pile of dishes Em held. "You shouldn't take exercise directly after a meal, darling," she said mildly. "I'd have thought they covered that on one of your fancy training courses."

_"Mam."_

"Perhaps Arthur would like to look at the family photographs, while you digest?" 

"Ah, Mam, no, I don’t think—"

"I'd absolutely love to, Hunith," Arthur said, ignoring Em's glare.

"Splendid. That's settled then. Em, you can help William with the washing up. And Doreen—you boys remember wee Dorrie, Callie's youngest grandniece; she's all grown now, even taller than you, Em—is calling round for the empty jam jars later today, so if you'll rinse those and stack them out front, that'd be a help."

Ignoring Em's spluttering and Will's renewed laughter, Arthur followed Hunith into a small sitting room. It wasn't cluttered, per se, but there were frames everywhere—hanging on the walls, lined up on the mantel, lurking in amongst lamps and potted ferns on all the end tables. They were all shapes and sizes. Most were of metal, but there were a few wooden ones tucked in here and there, bristling with glued-on buttons, pebbles and painted pasta shapes.

Arthur felt a lump in his throat. He'd made stuff like that when he was still in pre-prep. He'd given his creations to his nanny, to Alice in marketing or the groundsmen who let him hang round their shed—to any adult who gave him their undivided attention for more than five minutes, basically. He'd never once thought about the fact that they all had their own children, bringing home the same crap, year after year. He wondered if any of them had bothered keeping his pasta collages, or the stumpy terracotta stallions that Morgana said looked more like hippos.

"Here you are." Hunith plucked a pewter frame off the mantel and handed it to Arthur. "That was his first year with the Irregulars."

He looked down. There was no mistaking Em, right there in the centre, eyes shining under a wild mop of dark curls. He was wearing a horrid patterned keeper's shirt that looked as if someone had sicked up fruit pastels all down the front. His face was still boyish, chubbier than it was now, but his limbs were already on the lanky side. The padded gloves made his hands seem comically large.

Arthur wondered if anyone had dared call him Mickey Mouse. Smiling, because he couldn't stay glum at such a sight, Arthur glanced up at Hunith.

"All the time we spend talking about football, and he never said."

"Well, you know how it is, when you fancy someone. Don't want them knowing you were ever an awkward bundle of hormones, that you fumbled a bit before finding your niche."

"Oh, ah, sure." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, thinking of the night he'd truly "met" Em, at Avalon. Awkward bundle of hormones, indeed. "How was he then? He always talks like he was rubbish."

"He was all right between the sticks, especially on penalties. I think it bored him though, all that standing around while the other boys got to run with the ball." Hunith shook her head, smiling ruefully. "I wished he would have done athletics; he was ever so fast. But no, it had to be football. Unfortunately, he didn't always remember to take the ball with him when he ran. Or pass it, when he did. Better with his hands than his feet, that one."

"Oh, he's an absolute wizard with his hands," Arthur enthused. Hunith's eyes widened, and he hastily added, "At the club, I mean. Professionally. All the lads think so."

"Mmm, yes, he is at that." Mercifully, Hunith didn't comment further. She crossed to a table by the window, saying, "I always thought he might take up carpentry, you know, back when I was desperate for him to stay away from football. And fooling myself he could be happy biding here in the village."

Arthur studied the photo once more, then set it back on the mantel. He wondered what Hunith really thought of her son's choices. Em may have given up playing, but he certainly hadn’t stayed away from football. Or footballers. 

"I'll keep that in mind next time I'm contemplating a bit of DIY," he said, trying to tamp down inappropriate thoughts of Em pottering about his flat in little more than a toolbelt. Unshaven, maybe, with a bit of a tan and a pencil stuck behind one ear…

Hunith chuckled. "Now then. Here he is with William at the autumn festival, the year they won the turnip carving."

One by one Hunith picked up other frames and passed them to Arthur, murmuring dates and places and events. He saw numerous pictures of Em, from birth (a wrinkly, squally-looking baby with a massive shock of black hair) to what he guessed was a recent Christmas party at the corn exchange (everyone looking more than a bit sozzled, wearing hideous holiday jumpers and draped in shiny trimming).

He saw Em looking unfortunate in a bowl cut, kitted out as a tree in a school panto (Arthur didn't care for how he was ogling the lion), as well as devastatingly handsome, kitted out in his scrubs at the uni hospital (Arthur didn't care for how he was ogling the doctor).

It was frustrating, realising that there were so many pieces of Em's life that Arthur hadn't shared. He felt like he'd never catch up, never absorb it all, and that was before Hunith started in on the relatives.

Some Arthur recalled from conversations—Uncle John and Cousin Nim—while others were unfamiliar. There seemed to be an entire squad's worth of cousins living back in Ireland, plus several ancient grand-somethings who had stayed behind in Wales when Hunith's parents had first come to Ealdor.

Arthur studied their faces, boggled that all these plain, everyday people were somehow connected to someone he found so extraordinary. He soon gave up trying to remember the names and amused himself, instead, by searching for familiar features, finding a nose here, a set of ears there.

Then it dawned on Arthur that he had yet to see a single picture of Em's father. Paternal uncles and aunts and grandparents, yes, but no actual pater. 

_"Left when I was a baby,"_ Em had said. _"Or got nicked and sent to Ranby, depending on whose whispers you listen to. Either way, he died soon after, and I never knew him."_

Surely Hunith would have kept pictures though?

Arthur wandered round the room, wondering if he'd overlooked something, but there were no photos of Hunith beside a handsome, black-haired man. No wedding portrait or holiday snaps. 

Then he spotted a picture of a heavily pregnant Hunith. She was standing in front of the Dragon's Egg, laughing and pointing at her swollen belly. There was something blurry obscuring a corner of the shot.

Arthur picked it up, frowning. Was that a finger?

"Would you listen to me, rabbiting on," Hunith said briskly. "Shall we get back? I think I've embarrassed him enough for one visit, and I must be numbing your ears."

Arthur pulled his gaze in, fumbling the picture back onto a bookshelf. "Of course, Hunith, but I... Thank you. This was..."

Smiling a small, tight smile, she waved a dismissive hand and turned towards the door.

"I never saw a picture of my mother until I was ten," Arthur blurted.

She turned back to Arthur, face gone slack, puzzled.

"My sister, well, half-sister, really—that's Morgana—nicked the key to my father's desk and showed it to me. We'd been fighting, something to do with one of his girlfriends, and she wanted me to know who my real mum was. He refused to speak of her—refuses, still."

"Oh, Arthur," Hunith murmured. She bit her lip and drifted nearer. "I am sorry. About your mother, I mean; Em did tell me."

"Point is, I never had anything like this," Arthur said, swallowing down the familiar sick, aching feeling he got when speaking of his mother. He waved an arm, encompassing the room and all the eyes—friendly, sombre or indifferent, but at least fucking _there._

"So I wasn't just being polite. I really do appreciate this. The photos, the stories, everything. I realise you don't know me well, but please believe me. To me, Em is... he's..."

Arthur looked into Hunith's eyes, brain tripping over terms like "special" and "important" and "necessary," all of which were wholly inadequate. And "a fucking miracle" just sounded like bad daytime telly.

She reached out, touching her fingertips to his cheek. "Oh, love. I do see the way you look at him. What's more, I see the way you _listen._ Add to that the fact you know how he takes his tea, and... Well, maybe that's all I need to know, for now."

Arthur felt tears welling and blinked furiously. "Oh, that's ah... good."

Hunith patted his cheek once more, then stepped back, nodding towards the door. Her own eyes had gone a bit moist.

"Well," she said, putting on a brave smile. "Toilet is back beyond the kitchen, on your left, if you'd like a moment. I'll tell the boys you'll meet them out front. And I'm closing the Egg for a family supper tonight, so don't let them fill you up on pie and chips."

"No worries there," Arthur croaked. "I'm not really supposed to eat any of that stuff."

"Hmm. Is that so?" A glint came into her eyes. "Didn't my boys tell you what Ealdor's been famous for, all throughout history?"

Arthur shook his head. His tears were now threatening to spill, but he refused to wipe them away. Not in front of Hunith.

"Keeping secrets." Hunith tapped the side of her nose. "Ealdor looks after her own, Arthur. And I'd say you've been given your honorary membership, given the ghastly marks my son's left on your neck."


	31. Kick-off

Tuesday morning snuck up on Arthur, annoyingly bright and bitterly cold. Ice crystals had blossomed on the windowpanes at the Egg; he could see his breath in the passage. He didn't envy Will, who'd had to leave for the airport in the dead of night.

After a frenzied, no-nonsense fuck—spoons, as it had been their first time, except rougher, all pinioned limbs and deep, relentless thrusts and Em's promise of one day doing this _raw_ spit-whispered into Arthur's ear—they lingered in their duvet kingdom, dozing on and off.

They talked idly, Arthur searching for small, easy topics that could nonetheless be drawn out and chewed over: whether Cousin Nim was emo or goth; the Irregulars' chances of ever winning promotion. Ostensibly he was waiting for the worst of the rush hour traffic to clear, but it would have been more honest to say he was reluctant to leave. He was itching to play, of course he was, and it would be good to see the lads again, but...

Despite being only a few hours' drive from Camelot, Ealdor was another world—a kind of mad, cosy dream-world where the only sectarian violence consisted of Father Dunne accidentally elbowing Reverend Davies during darts, everyone was obsessed with locally sourced foods, and grown men shouted abuse at you in the street, not because you were publicly touching your boyfriend, but because said boyfriend had nicked their prizewinning apples. When he'd been _ten._

It was surreal, but delightful, and Arthur wasn't quite ready to pinch himself.

It was Em who reminded him of the time, who prodded him in the stomach and teased him about getting back in the gym after two days of real ale and home cooking. All too soon, Arthur found himself fishing for stray condom packets while Em stripped the bed.

After a quick breakfast at Hunith's—granary toast slathered with Callie's plum and apple jam—they retrieved the M3 from the stable and were off, slowly climbing the hills that hid Ealdor from its neighbours.

"What're you so pleased about?" Em said, interrupting his own whinge. He'd been accusing Arthur of messing with "his" seat settings. "You haven't stopped grinning since we left my mam's. Please tell me it's not that manky old sheepskin. Oh my god. You are seriously in love with it, aren't you?"

"Mmm," Arthur said. "Maybe."

It was true that he had grown fond of the pub's loaner coat during his stay, despite the funny smell, and that this had led to certain… proprietary feelings. True, too, that he'd been secretly pleased when Em had thrown it at his head, urging him to just _keep_ the damn thing if it would stop him making bitch faces at anyone who lingered near the coat pegs.

However, the _real_ reason Arthur was so happy was because Hunith had hugged him. It had been after breakfast, while Em was in the loo. It hadn't lasted long, but it had been a proper hug—an actual two-armed, face nestled on shoulder job, with a bit of a squeeze thrown in at the end.

"I'm going to see you again, aren't I?" she'd said.

And when Arthur, like an idiot, had stammered out, "Of course," and something about replacing the coat, she'd laughed softly.

"No need, love. What I meant was... Just, know you've a welcome here, Arthur. Any time."

* * *

They made it to Knightswood with twenty minutes to spare. In the dressing room Arthur quickly stripped off, half an ear on Kay's claim that Gwaine had finally let Elena try out his own sex pistol after the Christmas party.

Too late, he remembered the array of love bites on his neck and chest. He grabbed his Under Armour with the mock polo neck, but the lads had already seen. Someone whistled, low and long.

Bors whooped. "Lads, looks like the Wart pulled a live one!"

The first thing that popped into Arthur's head was, "You should see the other guy," but he really didn't fancy Myror's lemon-sucking face or Percy's earnest confusion. Instead, he forced himself to play it down, to not rush as he pulled on his shirt.

"Hey, mate, at least I pulled," he said. "Something other than my own tackle, that is."

The dressing room erupted in sniggers.

"Oh, my poor Princess," Gwaine crooned, all false concern as he patted Arthur's shoulder. "Didn't anyone ever tell you you're supposed to buy them dinner _first?"_

"Looks like he _was_ the dinner," Lemmie said, causing another wave of laughter. "Maybe he's been hanging out at Dungeons, eh fellas? You get some seriously dodgy skirt there."

"Oi!" Leon said, cuffing Lemmie on the back of the head. "I'll have you know I first lay eyes on my future wife at Dungeons."

"Dammit, Leon, we had a 'no details' deal," Arthur cried, covering his ears. He looked beseechingly at Kay, who winked and reached for a wadded up pair of socks.

"Hey, Belcourt, I need you to sniff something for me, tell me if it's fresh..."

Kay began to chase Leon round the dressing room, the other lads egging him on. Gwaine leaned in and lifted one of Arthur's hands away from his ear. His smile was far too intimate for Arthur's liking.

"Hey, if I'd known our Em was a biter, I never would have let him near my—ouf!"

Arthur hip checked Gwaine into the lockers, prompting a cry of, "Ref, foul!"

"Best watch your mouth, Orkney," Arthur murmured. "I was just in Ealdor, and I learned a thing or two about you. Including why you don't get back to visit much."

Gwaine's eyes widened. _"No."_

"Oh, _yes."_ Arthur grinned. "And Will gave me the platinum tour, all the top scandal spots, so I saw the very barstool where it happened. As well as the sheepfold where you—"

"Easy there, big fella!" Gwaine cut in, lunging to clap a hand over Arthur's mouth. "Silence is a virtue, after all. In fact I think—"

The doors banged open, and Arthur and Gwaine sprang apart. The room fell silent. It was Coach, looking absolutely furious.

"Pendragon," he barked. "A word, please. The rest of you lot get your arses outside and start running. Work off all that bloody Christmas cheer."

Arthur tried to appear confident as he walked to the door. "Yes, Coach?"

"Not here, son. In my office."

Arthur's heart sank. The lads trooped past, some shooting him worried looks. Gwaine comically mimed zipping his lips, which made Arthur feel a bit better until he noticed that Coach's eyelid was twitching. That was never a good sign.

Coach waited until the room had emptied before turning and stumping off down the corridor. Arthur followed, mind gone blank. Apparently his brain really didn't want him thinking of all the reasons why he might be due a personal bollocking.

* * *

It didn't take long to find out.

"Your bloody father," Coach began, sitting heavily behind his whale of a desk. The whistle round his neck caught on something hidden amongst the clutter. He clawed at the lanyard, yanked it off, and threw it across the desk with a growl. It landed on the tower of brass cubes and spikes that Leon swore was a minimalist statue of a dragon.

"Your bloody, _bloody_ father. Never once in all the years I've worked for this club—why, he promised me! Promised me, sure as you're sitting there, that he'd never directly interfere, and what does he... Bah!" He slapped the desktop, then pointed a thick, shaking finger at Arthur. "You told him, didn't you?"

Arthur tore his gaze away from the lethal-looking statue, forcing himself to meet Coach's eyes. "Yes," he said. Then, "I had to, Coach. He was plotting to marry me off to Vivian Olaffson."

Coach screwed a thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, muttering, "A team of eunuchs, maybe, or nuns? Do any nuns play football?"

"Sir? My father, what's he done?"

"Oh, well." Coach threw his hands in the air and swivelled about in his chair, searching for something. "Son, did you see what I did with my—oh, cheers, yes." He leaned forward to retrieve his whistle. He gave it a little polish on his sleeve, settled it round his neck, and looked up at Arthur with a sombre face.

"He wants me to rest you for the FA Cup tie this weekend, give one of the younger lads a chance."

"But that's not—it's _Western Isles,_ Coach. I don’t need a bloody _rest._ I need to be on the end of Elyan's crosses, ramming goals down the Redshanks' throats. After what they—"

Coach held up a hand. "You don't need to tell me, son, I was there. But that's his point. Says he wants to avoid further public controversy over the issues surrounding your sending off."

"The _issues_ surrounding my—oh, so I suppose he's asked you to bench the black players as well then? Or is it just the queers? Won't that fuckwit Valiant be delighted that he doesn’t have to share the pitch with—"

_"For fuck's sake_ sit your arse back down, son! You wouldn't be here if I was just going to roll over and kowtow to that bloody tyrant!"

Arthur, who'd jumped up, ready to go find Em and tell him to pack his bags, froze. He'd seen Coach angry before, but this, this was something else.

"Apologies," Coach said, bowing his head. "I shouldn't speak that way about the Chairman."

"Oh, well," Arthur said. He perched warily on the edge of the wooden seat. "I'm sure I called him worse at the weekend."

Coach chuckled, and Arthur might, just _might_ have heard him murmur, "I hope you did," before he cleared his throat and fixed Arthur with a fierce gaze.

"It's going to be brutal, you do know that, despite the FA scrutiny?"

Arthur nodded, uneasy. Players often tried to get into one another's heads; it was part of the game. But after what had happened in October, the Redshanks wouldn't just be scenting blood, they'd be out to spill it. And they'd have upwards of thirty thousand rabid fans egging them on.

"I can't have you losing your temper, no matter how nasty it gets out there."

"Only thing I'm planning on smashing my head through is the ball, Coach. You have my word."

"Well then." Coach sighed and glanced away, out through the window, to where the lads could be seen jogging listlessly round the practice pitches. "Nuns," he said wistfully, toying with his whistle.

There was a long pause, long enough for Arthur to shift uncomfortably on the hard seat and re-imagine the demise of his career—not by being sensationally outed, but by being quietly shunted aside and shuffled down benches until no one remembered his name. He didn't think he could bear that, the thousand cuts of backroom whispers and silent snubs, being branded a troublemaker. Better to go out fighting.

Then Coach shook himself. He turned back to Arthur, thin lips pressed into a hard smile.

"Just between you and me, I'm afraid there's going to be a terrible stomach bug going around the reserves by the weekend, and Owain's going to knack something unspecified but worrisome during drills on Thursday. Terribly inconvenient, that. Plus Myror's already made it plain he'd prefer to sit this one out, so I'll have no choice but to start you on Saturday. Best shake a leg now, son. You're late for training."

Arthur stood. A grin bubbled up from somewhere, split his face before he could even think about containing it. "Wait, Coach, do you mean—"

"I will _not_ let a man in a bloody contrast collar and college tie tell me how to run my side." Coach had his angry finger out again, his whole body quivering with disdain. "Uther Pendragon may be a genius in the boardroom; he may shit gold and piss champagne, but he couldn't manage this squad to save his waxed fucking arse! And you didn't hear me say that."

Arthur nodded, trying to compose his face into something more professional. He really didn't want to think about his father's arse, waxed or otherwise. "Yes, Coach."

"Oh, and Pendragon? Tell those slummocks out there to shift it up a gear. My kids' goldfish look more lively. Even the dead ones."

* * *

If Uther had hoped to avoid controversy by side-lining Arthur, he'd been sorely mistaken.

At this stage, FA Cup fixtures demanded a bit of juicy backstory to help their general appeal. So, after the media had talked themselves out over century-long rivalries and siblings playing for opposing sides, they latched onto Arthur's red card incident with relish: Valiant had been stripped of his captain's armband after the investigation; would he be out to settle a personal score? Could Camelot's number nine keep his temper in check? And what did viewers think of his not-so-apologetic apology? Could clubs be doing more to combat racist and homophobic attitudes—and what, exactly, was the FA's role in all of this? Had there been any real progress since Fashanu's suicide?

In the week leading up to the match, Arthur could hardly switch on the telly without seeing clips of one of the worst—yet, oddly enough, also one of the most cathartic—days of his life. It was the day he'd fully claimed his own body, his own desires. It was also the day he'd made a complete arse of himself on the phone to Em, but that was working out a treat, barring the depressing distance between their respective flats. (Arthur had begun eyeing his place up, wondering what it would take to convert the guest room into a study so Em could have a proper home for his muscle charts and shin-bruising piles of medical texts.)

Uther was reportedly furious at the renewed media attention— _reportedly_ because, although Morgana had also stopped speaking to their father, she still had a mole on his staff. Arthur noticed that several familiar faces were missing from the room when the Coach held his weekly press conference.

Hector, too, was in a purplish froth, and there were rumours about protests being staged at the Western Isles match. Against _what,_ exactly, Arthur wasn't sure. He did his best to avoid the coverage, preferring to let Em give him his own quirky twist on the madness over the phone each night.

Like when Em told him that he couldn't even dash out for a pint of milk without feeling like an utter perv, because all the tabloids had reprinted _that_ picture of Arthur's face.

_"Yes, the very one I fucking wanked over. Still can't believe I told you about that, by the way, but it was the first time I'd got your mouth on my cock, so I suppose I have to forgive myself. Shit, Arthur, I nearly got hard in the lift yesterday—the lift!—in front of a group of pensioners. It was humiliating."_

The opening of the January transfer window provided some relief from all the rumour-mongering—or, rather, it gave it a different focus, as the football-obsessed took to speculating about who was going where and what for.

Even so, by Friday night Arthur was more than ready for some top transfer target to tweet something controversial or be discovered in flagrante with the neighbour's wife... or husband, come to think of it. It would certainly make things a bit easier, some other pro being caught with a bloke in a big juicy scandal. Maybe even a three-way.

When he told Em as much, after a bout of rather creative phone sex, he was treated to a hoarse chuckle.

_"Now, now. Hasn't anyone told you that being catty is just another form of self-loathing? Freya says it's bad for your personal growth. Though based on what I've just seen on my mobile here, your 'growth' is well above average, at least in the girth—Arthur? Are you all right? You sound as if you're choking. Don't worry, I'm deleting them now... ish. Mmm, hey, if I scroll fast enough it's like a little gif of you—ah, let's just say they'll be gone by morning. On my life."_

Saturday morning came as a relief. One way or another, by the end of the day there would be fresh news for the jackals to tear into, hopefully leaving Arthur with more room to breathe. He boarded the bus with a grim smile, nodding at his yawning compatriots.

As he passed Em—sat near the other staff at the front of the bus, Elena already snoring at his side—he couldn't resist resting a hand on his shoulder. It was a brief gesture, more of a tap, really, like what Leon did when counting heads. Still, it felt significant to Arthur, _right_ somehow, and the sleepy half-smile he got in return reminded him of what he was really fighting for, regardless of the final score.

* * *

Western Isles played at High Croft, a grand old pile of concrete perched on the mainland across from the islands themselves. The bulk of their supporters travelled over via boat, and local police had asked CFC to arrive well ahead of the first ferry, hoping to see the squad safely tucked away inside the stadium before the lagered-up hordes disembarked.

They set off early enough, but were caught in a tailback just to the west of the city, wasting a good forty-five minutes creeping along the motorway at a snail's pace. The roads out to the coast, winding and narrow, weren't much faster going. The bus kept having to stop for crossing livestock and oncoming lorries. By the time they arrived, the friendly locals were already much in evidence, shouting abuse and hurling debris at the bus.

"Who the fuck throws chip forks—correction, handfuls of _clean_ chip forks?" Elyan said. "I mean, that's almost useful. I could murder a cod and chips right about now."

Across the aisle, Lance wrinkled his nose. "All that grease would slow you down, E. And it's definitely not on the approved foods list."

"Mmm hmm." Elyan rolled his eyes at Arthur and went back to watching the hooligans outside.

Things had been a bit cool between Lance and Elyan all week—something, Em had told Arthur, to do with Lance taking Gwen out for a coffee after the Christmas party. For six hours.

"No worries, they'll be on to the bottles soon enough," Percy said. He sounded almost cheerful. Right on cue the driver swore, and there was a loud crash from up near the front of the bus. "There we are! It's kicking right off now, lads. Think I should show 'em the moon?"

"Yeah, go for it," Elyan said. "Really. Arse that white, they'll be blinded and fuck off home to mum."

"But the—" Arthur began. Elyan elbowed him hard in the ribs, so it was left to Lance to state the obvious.

"Sit down, Perce. Windows are tinted."

"Aw, thanks a lot, _Lancelot,"_ Elyan groused. "What did you have to go and spoil it for?"

"Lads," Leon bellowed. He'd yanked one earbud out of his ear and was glowering at them from up the aisle. He gave Arthur an especially pointed look.

Technically, as vice-captain, it was more Percy's job to keep the peace, but he wasn't always the best with delicate situations. Arthur had been tasked with sorting out Elyan and Lance, partly because he knew what it was like, having a sister date one of your teammates, and partly as a favour to Leon, who was bearing the brunt of the whole standoff with Uther.

Ever since Sunday, when Leon had been stuck in a _very_ awkward game of golf with his future father-in-law, Uther had taken to leaving messages on his voicemail. Mostly they were elaborately worded variations on "Can't you control your woman?" and bullying suggestions about his future career options. It was clearly driving him spare, but to his credit he hadn't once asked Morgana to reconsider.

Arthur ducked his head apologetically and nudged Elyan back towards the window. "Hey, E, look. It's the bloke from the chippy, and he doesn't look best pleased. Little bastards are about to get nicked."

As people crowded to the left side of the bus to watch the chase, Arthur crossed the aisle and slid in beside the wounded-looking Lance.

"Look, mate, he doesn't mean anything by it. He just needs a bit of time. Trust me. I didn't even _like_ Morgana most of the time when we were growing up, but I was fully prepared to hate Leon on sight when I learned they were shagging."

"But I don't want him thinking... Arthur, it really was only coffee. We got talking about Wessex Warfest, lost track of time, and—"

"I don't need the gory details," Arthur cut in. "Just—hang on." His mobile pinged with a new text. It was from Em, and it was marked urgent.

_Get elyanawy away frm window stat ps I swear I didnt know but gwen ftw_

Arthur stood. Em was twisted around in his seat, looking back at Arthur with wide eyes. His mouth was twitching, as if he couldn't decide whether to start screaming or laughing. Beside him, Elena was leaning forward, face mushed up against the glass.

"What?" Arthur mouthed, confused. All he could see at the moment was a general blur of people and one of the great stone pylons that marked the entrance to High Croft's outer plaza.

Just then Lance's mobile went with a flurry of guitar chords. It was the same ringtone that had been putting a shy smile on his face all week (the same ringtone that had made Elyan grit his teeth and close his locker more forcefully than was strictly necessary).

"Gwen? I can hardly hear you. Where are—"

The bus pulled into the plaza entrance and came to a dead stop. Then several things happened all at once.

A loud cheer went up from those at the front. Someone called out, "Hey, E, isn't that your sister?" Arthur made a grab for Elyan's shoulder, and Lance began shouting Gwen's name into his mobile, waving madly when he caught sight of her in the crush of bodies up ahead.

"Windows are tinted, Lance," Percy said, not unkindly.

"What the fuck?" Elyan shrugged Arthur's hand aside.

"Yeah," Arthur said, sinking down into his seat when his brain finally processed what he was seeing. "Um... Nah, mate, can't add to that. I think you've summed it up nicely."

Because, yes, what the fuck.

Arthur had known that Gwen and her motley band, which had grown by a few mates since the Albion match, were planning on attending the Cup tie. What he had not known, however, was that Gwen was going to be attending in full fucking Roman regalia—the kind that showed off her legs, incidentally—nor that she would be in the thick of the protest being staged outside High Croft.

And she'd brought more than just a few mates this time around. There were hundreds of people packed into the plaza outside the stadium, kept apart from the home fans by a series of barricades and a police cordon. A large number of other Roman re-enactors were at Gwen's side, plus a score of variously-armoured women that Arthur was willing to bet were the Dykes with Pikes. And speaking of dykes...

As the bus lurched forward once more, having picked up a police escort, Arthur caught sight of Freya and Helen. The former was in her stylist's apron, the latter in her chauffeur's uniform. They were in a throng of people wearing a variety of kit—coveralls, lab coats, chefs' whites. Beyond them was a group whose banner proclaimed them members of the Camelot West Indian Social Club and another whose shirts read "Football For All." There were members of the Dragonlords and Knights of the Kop, families in all manner of replica shirts, and even a drag cheerleading squad.

It was as diverse a collection of people as Arthur had ever seen, but there was one thing they all had in common. To a person, they were holding up placards pre-printed with the words:

**I'M A SUPPORTER, AND I'M ____**

The blanks were filled in by hand with everything from jokes to simple statements of identity: here, queer, black, fed up, gay, ginger, athletic, an immigrant, your lezzie baker, Larry (call me for a good time!), disabled, biracial, bisexual—and on and on. Arthur even spotted one woman who'd written "having Lance's babies." He dearly hoped Gwen didn't run into her, at least not while wearing a sword.

Arthur began to laugh. Not with any great skill, apparently, as it soon devolved into gasping hiccups. Without tearing his eyes from the window, Elyan reached over and whacked him on the back.

"What the fuck?" he repeated, now sounding more amused than stunned. "I mean, she told me she'd done the whole activist bit when she was at uni, but I'd no idea—wait, you didn't know about this, did you?"

"No," Arthur wheezed. "None." He took a deep breath, held it, and began furiously texting Em.

_Father going to shit twice and die what have I done?_

_Dont be arrogant arse,_ came the reply. _This is much bigger than u - hey did u spot morgana? Awful man drag at 10 o'clock, over by the queens, not fooling anyone with those tits_

Arthur let out his breath with a loud groan and slid lower in his seat. Around him, the squad continued to chatter excitedly and gesture at the windows (despite the tinting).

A shrill whistle pierced the air.

Arthur sat up. Coach was standing in the aisle, clutching the seatbacks on either side of him in a death grip.

"Listen up, lads," he shouted. "We may be in the middle of a circus, but you are _not_ a bunch of fucking clowns, is that understood? So sit your arses down and..."

He trailed off, attention caught by something happening outside. Arthur followed his gaze. The mob had gone still and mostly silent. They'd turned their placards round, row upon row of perfectly alternated red and gold rectangles, all reading:

**UP THE DRAGONS! DOWN WITH HATE!**

"Well I'll be," Coach said, eyebrows jigging like mad. "It seems there is method to the madness after all. Let this be a lesson, lads. Discipline." He pointed at the window. "If that bunch out there can pull together and find some, then so bloody well can you. Which you'd best do, and soon, because it's the only way we're winning this match."

He paused, a wry grin twisting his lip. "And if we _lose,_ well... there are going to be a lot of very disappointed supporters out there, and some of them look to be handy with very sharp sticks. Belcourt!"

Leon stood, scrubbing a hand through his beard as if trying to wipe away the laughter.

"Anything to add?"

Leon cleared his throat. He looked up and down the bus, taking the time to look each man in the eye. "The men in there, they've beat us once, yeah? So they figure they know how to do it again. Well, I'm telling you lads, they don't know shit. So feel free to ignore them. Watch yourselves, watch your mates, and watch for the _spaces_ around them. Got it? The spaces. Not the men."

* * *

It became clear in the first ten minutes of the match that Western Isles would rather see Arthur dead than allow him a clear run on goal. By halftime, he'd bloodied two shirts, and Em was no longer even pretending to find his line about how they had to stop meeting like this amusing. He treated Arthur's cuts and bruises with his usual grace and efficiency, but his eyes never strayed from the task at hand, and his mouth was set in a grim, determined line.

By the time the match ended, Arthur was in his third shirt—which didn't even have his name on it, because you normally didn't need more than two—and he wanted nothing so much as to follow the sun as it sank into the sea. And sleep there for about a hundred years.

The post-match formalities passed in a blur, and finally, _finally,_ Arthur was allowed to stagger back onto the bus with his throbbing ankle and bazillion bruises, not to mention the split lip and shallow—albeit profusely bleeding—cut on his cheek, courtesy of a stray elbow.

He collapsed into the first open seat, across the aisle from Leon.

"Spaces, huh?" Arthur muttered. "Those bloody _spaces_ felt pretty fucking solid to me."

Leon grinned, revealing the fresh gap in his upper incisors (there had been a _lot_ of stray elbows) and Arthur started to grin back until his face reminded him that it would really rather he didn't. He hissed, pressing a thumb to his stinging lip. "Ow."

Leon laughed. "You look a right dog's breakfast."

"Yeah, well, I feel more like one of those bloody chew toys your mutts are always fighting over."

"Mutts? They're pedigreed six ways to Sunday, and you know it, you ugly bastard. Just this once I'll forgive you though. In fact, if we weren't in danger of bleeding all over one another, I would fucking kiss you right now."

"Get in line, Captain," Elyan crowed, striding down the aisle. He alone seemed to have energy left to spare—well, he and Kay, but Kay hadn't spent over 90 minutes jogging all over the pitch with a virtual target pinned to his back.

Elyan planted a loud smack on Arthur's forehead before he could pull away. "Don't care what those motherfuckers on the telly say; you, Pendragon, are my man of the match."

"Hear, hear!" Leon cried, and the others on the bus echoed him.

It had been an absolute grind, physical from first to last, a game of set pieces resulting from all of the Redshanks' attempts to frustrate Camelot's possession. By the time the final whistle blew, there had been eight bookings and five goals between the two teams. Four of the goals belonged to Camelot, and though his name was only on one of them—a penalty smashed into the roof of the net—it could be argued that they all belonged to Arthur.

He'd drawn the fouls that had led to prime scoring opportunities. He'd run himself ragged trying to frustrate his markers and provide support for his teammates. And, again and again, he'd flung himself into the opposition's box on corners, forcing panicked clearances and, on one memorable attempt, the Valiant own goal that had put Camelot in the lead.

As the cheers died down, Bors started up a rousing chorus of, "Oh, our number nine's a hard man, his balls are made of brass." It was an old, crude, terrace chant that their fans had revived earlier, belting it out each time Arthur had been ordered to the touchline to change his bloody shirt.

He closed his eyes, fighting a smile. He was sure that whatever bits of him weren't black and blue were now red with embarrassment.

"Cheers for that, lads," he said when they finished. "Cheers. Enjoy your celebrations. I'll just be here, having a kip. Dying quietly. That sort of thing."

He let his mind drift, replaying the whole mad spectacle, especially the venomous look on Valiant's face when he realised he'd deflected the ball into his own net. When a deep voice—Percy's—told him to shift over, he shifted, and when someone put something soft between his head and the window, he mumbled his thanks. At some point the bus started moving, and he allowed himself to be pulled down into sleep.

He knew he'd probably wake up with shaving gel smeared on his palms and something rude written on his forehead, but he really couldn't be bothered.

* * *

When Arthur woke, it was dark. The bus was gliding along the motorway, the lights of a city shimmering in the distance. A warm thigh was pressed alongside his own, and he heard the furious clicking of mobile keys.

"What time's it, Perce?" he mumbled, wincing as he caught the scab on his lip with his wonky tooth.

"Hmm, time for you to get your eyes checked, apparently," came the quiet reply. "The last time anything of mine was his size was, well, never."

"Em?"

"That's the one. How you feeling, Sleeping Beauty?" Without taking his eyes from his mobile, Em reached over and brushed his knuckles across the back of Arthur's hand.

"Crap."

"More or less crap than earlier?"

"Ankle less, face more, and everything in between is just—" Arthur shifted, attempting to stretch. _"Fuck._ Everything in between is just sore. Really fucking sore. Not the good kind of fucking, the bad kind."

The corner of Em's mouth curved up into a smile. He glanced up and down the aisle, then covered Arthur's hand with his own, curling his fingers round so he was lightly gripping his palm. Arthur squeezed back.

"You know, if football doesn't work out for you, you might have a career in boxing. You do an awfully good impersonation of a punching bag."

"I wasn't _trying_ to get injured, Emrys. Their whole fucking squad was gunning for me, or didn't you notice?"

"Oh, I noticed." Em pressed one last key, slipped his mobile into a pocket, and turned towards Arthur. "Ellie and I have never come so close to compromising our professional ethics."

"What do you mean?"

"Dulcolax in their halftime water supply. We seriously considered it, but decided it wouldn't be fair to whomever has to clean up after, given that some of those wankers don't have the IQ to wipe their own arses."

Arthur snickered. "How thoughtful of you. Now, are you here solely for medical reasons, or were you hoping to steal a cuddle while I was asleep?"

Em pulled his hand away with a little huff, flicking at Arthur's fingers when he tried to snatch it back.

_"Actually,_ you ingrate, I was performing emergency secretarial services—we can discuss my fee later—at the insistence of Kay and Leon. They got tired of people trying to reach you through them. And Kay was worried Hector might blow a valve if he didn't get an update on your condition."

"Wait, you've been speaking to _Hector?"_

"Texting," Em corrected. "Yes. And with Morgana and Gwen, who are equal parts concerned mooing and hearty back slaps, and my mam—well, I did speak to her, she needed quite a bit of reassuring—and one or two others."

"Such as?" Arthur couldn't help sounding a bit sharp. He didn't even want to contemplate what might have happened if Em had been the one to respond to an overture from Uther.

"No, not your—not him." Em gave a brief shake of his head. "But I overheard Coach saying that the word from on high was that everyone gets to keep their heads, for now. CFC has been picked to be one of the live broadcasts for the next round, regardless of who we're playing. Apparently, between the squad and the new supporters' movement, Camelot makes a good spectacle."

Arthur groaned. "Oh my god, I'd forgot about that. What the hell was—"

"Don't," Em said. He cupped a hand, gently, over Arthur's mouth, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Don't say it. Yes, it was utterly marbles-gone-walkabout insane, but also glorious, and I want to savour the memory before the pundits start picking it apart and telling us whether or not it truly advances our cause."

Arthur jerked away, stifling a giggle. "Stop that. Tickles. Hurts to laugh."

"Oh dear, yes, your poor face. I'm meant to tell you."

"What?"

"Excalibur Razors. Their people have been in touch. And apparently, despite Hector's fears, they still want it—your face, that is—even though it looks like you tried snogging a badger."

"They didn't say that."

"Not in so many words, no, but the point is, they're still keen. And there were a few others. Sponsors, that is. As well as, uh... Hang on, I saved Hector's texts." Em fished his mobile out of his pocket, pressed various keys, and passed it to Arthur.

It took a moment for Arthur to understand what he was looking at. "Albion, Caerleon, North London—Em, these are top clubs," he whispered excitedly.

"Mmm. Seems half the league have fallen for your brand of mad pony. So best get some rest with what's left of the weekend. We've got a lot of work to do back in the shop; got to get you fighting fit."

Arthur caught a hard edge beneath the words, which puzzled him. Following an instinct, he caught hold of Em's hand as he passed the mobile back.

"I'm staying, Em. At yours tonight, as we planned—I don't care if all we do is count my bruises—and tomorrow we're making lunch for your mates, also as planned. We're going to force them to watch _Escape to Victory_ while pretending we take the acting very, very seriously, then we're kicking them out so you can—"

"Alright, alright, hush," Em said, glancing up the aisle once more. "Not in front of the children."

As far as Arthur could tell, most of the lads were either sleeping, messing with their mobiles, or engaged in a quiet game of cards at the back of the bus. He doubted any of them were paying the slightest bit of attention, but he respected Em's desire for caution.

Still, he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings.

"I'm _staying,_ Em," he whispered. "With you. Even if I end up going to another club, I'm staying with you. Thought I made that clear last weekend."

"Yeah, well." Em made a meal of switching off his mobile, pocketing it, and rummaging in the bag at his feet. "As if I'd even have you, now that you're horribly disfigured." He handed Arthur a bottle filled with orange liquid. He wasn't smiling, but his expression was nowhere near the professional mask he'd worn all through the match. "Here, drink this. Then go back to sleep. I'll protect you from the merry pranksters."


	32. Transfer Totty

By all accounts, January should have been a red-letter month. Arthur was out to the people who mattered, he was playing some of the best football of his career—despite the cold weather and punishing fixture list—and he was, not to put too fine a point on it, having lots of fantastic sex.

Em had been right, back in October, when he'd confronted Arthur about being a physical person. Joy, love, intimacy—to Arthur they weren't esoteric concepts but something he experienced bodily, something he needed to enact. He could no more imagine loving Em without touching him than he could imagine loving football from reading about it in a book.

He knew it wasn't like this for everyone, and he respected that, but he was really fucking thankful he'd found someone who understood this about him, who'd been attracted to him _because_ of it. It was Em who'd suggested they try and spend at least three nights a week together, wherever was most convenient, until they were able to make more permanent changes. Arthur would always get a good night's rest before matches, but after...

Arthur thought there was nothing quite like coming home—exhausted, exhilarated—and getting to suck cock. Or just burrowing under Em's clothes, bothering his nipples and his composure until he gave into Arthur's desire for quick, messy handjobs.

"C'mon, Em, I'm making up for my teenage years," he'd whine, hiding a grin at the inevitable retorts, which were along the lines of, "So long as you don't expect me to bugger you in the back of a Ford Cortina."

Or, if one or the other of them had had a bad day—if Arthur had shanked a shot wide or Em had butted heads with one of the coaching staff—he knew he could count on Em to take care of him, or to come to Arthur for what he wanted. More often than not, this involved Em telling him to shut the fuck up and get his kit off and go spread himself over the bed (or the sofa or the dining room table or once, gloriously, on Arthur's weight bench) and _wait._

Arthur loved that, loved how he couldn't brood or get angry at himself—could barely even _think_ —because all his attention would be focused on the cool air on his upturned hole and hanging sac, on the stretch in his hamstrings and the delicious shiver of anticipation...

And then, when Em finally padded up behind him, it became even easier to leave the day behind, because all he had to do was listen to Em telling him in his bossy voice how stupid he was, thinking that what he'd done or not done on the pitch was in any way important when _clearly_ he'd been put on this good green earth to spread his thighs and serve up his arse as a plaything.

All he had to do was take whatever Em chose to gift him with—be it fingers or toys or cock or tongue—until he was a trembling, needy wreck. Until Em's commands grew exultant and slightly breathless, and Arthur thought they were both exactly where they needed to be.

So Arthur _knew_ he was fucking fortunate, but he wasn't entirely happy. Beneath all the surface brilliance lurked a deep, dull unease, and every day he felt like he had to work a little harder to lose himself, whether on the pitch or in his time alone with Em.

* * *

It was the stupid bloody transfer season, that was the problem. Not the _real_ problem of course—Arthur didn't like thinking about the real problem—but it was making things so much worse. Hell, it unsettled everyone, all those rumours flying about, all the closed-door meetings and the relentless news ticker on Sky. By the first leg of the League Cup semi-final, in mid-January, things had gotten truly ridiculous.

After the match—a comfortable 1-0 home win over Caerleon—Gwaine was spotted dining with a mate whose brother just happened to work for Mercia. Suddenly "Bayard" and "poaching" were being used in the same sentence, fights were breaking out in pubs, and Gwaine was being pounced on in press conferences.

"It was just a fucking burger with Greeney," Gwaine protested in the canteen the following week. "We do it every couple of months, when he's in town. Now I've got ball boys giving me the evil eye, and Catrina is skimping on the sauce."

"Shut yer gob, Orkney. You've as much shauce as anyone elsh," Bors said through a mouthful of chicken.

"Yeah, but you see, he's used to extra," Arthur pointed out. "Time was, a wink and a hair-flip and Catrina would make free with the ladle."

"Exactly," Gwaine said, grumpily forking up peas. "What's the world coming to, when a man can't profit by his natural charms? And how come no one is questioning your loyalty, eh, Princess? That piece in the _Albion Herald_ was a fucking come-hither we're wet and ready letter if ever I saw one."

"It was one bloke's sport blog, Gwaine. On his _fantasy_ signings. Key word being—"

"He's not the only one fantasising about our Wart," Kay cut in, looking up from his mobile with a face that Arthur knew well. And dreaded. "Guess who's finally made it onto Kickette's Finest Five list, courtesy of the Excalibur pre-launch."

Arthur ducked his head as laughter and catcalls broke out all down the table. Gwaine made a disgusted noise and pointed his fork at Arthur. "Should've been me," he announced. "Or Lance. We're fitter by miles."

"You'll get no arguments from me, mate," Arthur mumbled. He was starting to regret agreeing to all those topless shots.

After signing with Excalibur, he'd been ordered by Hector to attend the pre-launch of their new campaign down in London. It had been a lot of glad-handing and standing around in—and partially out of—a bespoke suit, smiling for the photographers. The end result was a swag bag full of free shaving products and his picture all over the internet, even though the ads weren't due to be filmed until spring.

It had become a popular subject of dressing room harassment, from Myror's snide, "Legendary, huh? Isn't that a bit premature?" to Leon's faux-innocent, "Since when are you old enough to shave, Wart?"

"What is it with you and that lady blog anyway?" Arthur said, in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

"The style files, of course," Kay retorted, looking at Arthur with wide, earnest eyes. "Got to keep an eye on the trends. Good chat-up fodder."

Fresh laughter broke out. Arthur rolled his eyes and went to drop off his tray before he had to listen to any more disparaging commentary on the state of his abs or chin scruff. Or the size of his head.

* * *

The lads didn't mean anything by it, of course, other than to take him down a peg or two—hell, he would have done the same thing in their position. But to Arthur it was a constant, grating reminder of the _real_ reason he'd said yes to Excalibur, which wasn't ego or greed, but fear.

The Monday after their Cup rout at Western Isles, Hector had come up to Camelot to see him. Arthur had gone into the meeting fresh off his weekend with Em, still sore, but relaxed, and more than a bit chuffed with himself at all the clubs who'd taken notice. He knew that he'd proved beyond a doubt that he wasn't one of those spoilt, talented brats who dazzled well enough in the box, but looked a spare part when play didn't go his way.

He'd strode into Hector's suite, saying, "What was that about social issues being distractions again, Hec? Because it seems to me the fans don't share your views; in fact, I think they'd be perfectly fine with Em and I and all our social issues _distracting_ Camelot all the way to the fucking FA Cup final."

Then he'd noticed Hector's face, greyish-purple and pinched, as if he'd swallowed a lemon. Or a whole sack of lemons.

"Sit down, son," Hector had said. "There's something I need to ask you. I heard from your father yesterday. Your father _himself,_ mind, not his people."

And all Arthur had been able to do was swallow down the rising bile in his throat, sink into a chair, and listen. When Hector had finished, looking almost pleadingly at Arthur, as if hoping he'd deny it, all he could do was nod: Yes, he was well satisfied where he was; yes, he would dutifully play out his current contract, then accept whatever new terms CFC deigned to offer him. No, he wouldn't be speaking to other clubs.

To his credit, Hector had told Arthur that Uther wasn't his damn client, so if there was something going on, perhaps something to do with whatever nonsense had happened at the party…

"Speak up, son," he'd said. "I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."

But Arthur _couldn't_ speak up, because he remembered exactly what his father had threatened to do. He'd convinced himself it was only the drink talking, a dramatic, scotch-induced bluff, but he wasn't prepared to call it, not now that the old man was flexing his muscles. There was no fucking way Arthur would risk ruining Em's career to further his own. He might be new to this whole relationship business, but _that,_ he was certain, was high on the list of Unforgivables.

Besides, it wasn't like he'd actually _wanted_ to leave. He loved Camelot, loved the football he was playing for them. He had more true friends on the squad than any other he'd played with since the under-17s, and the fans, well, they continued to surprise him, didn't they? Every week, it seemed like more "Down with hate" placards popped up in the stands, even amongst some of the old die-hards on the Kop.

Still, it had been nice thinking he had options, and he couldn't help being resentful that they'd been summarily swept off the table at one word from his fucking father. What would happen when his contract ended? What would happen if he got injured or Coach decided he was no longer a good tactical fit? Worse yet, what if Coach got the sack, and Arthur had to prove himself all over again to the new man?

All those worries and fears, chasing round and round in Arthur's head, that was what had made him sit up and pay attention when Hector brought the conversation round to sponsorships.

"It wouldn’t hurt to get your face out there, son," he'd said, "before things become more… controversial. Believe me, no matter how much they deny it, people still love that whole 'brave son of England' shit—they're practically gagging for it—and that's what they see in you, Arthur. Why not profit from it, while you can?"

So he'd said yes to Excalibur Razors, to Hengroen Motors and Knight Watches and Bluecloak Security Systems—all the bloody deals Hector had been itching for him to sign for the past month. He'd decided to smile and strut and shill whatever the fuck they wanted him to, to take the money and the teasing now, just in case his future on the pitch wasn't as bright as the pundits were predicting.

For the most part, Arthur managed to hide his unease. He had a rather sad amount of experience at hiding things, after all, so as long as he wasn't being overly aloof or storming around in a temper, people tended to assume he was fine. He couldn't help gritting his teeth though, when Myror hinted that he'd be in Albion white come February or Geraint got a call-up for Northern Ireland. And he was sick and bloody tired of hearing about how much craic had been had at Tristan and Issie's wedding when he'd spent it trying to fend off pie-eyed bridesmaids and watching, heartsick, as Em danced with a string of Issie's aunts.

It seemed like all around him people were moving up or moving on, moving _forward,_ whereas Arthur felt stuck. Just like the stupid razor in the stupid stone in those ridiculous Excalibur adverts he'd signed on for.

Even Em was getting on with his life, at least career-wise. He'd been offered more hours if he wanted them, plus he'd been asked to help develop new fitness and conditioning models for the entire club, from the academy on up. Arthur thought it sounded like a lot more work for not much more pay, but Em was thrilled.

"Fucking finally," he'd crowed, flinging down his overnight bag and heading straight for Arthur's kitchen. "How often have you heard me say that me and my kind wouldn't be patching up near so much overpriced manflesh every damn week if your clubs bothered beating good habits into you from the beginning? I think this calls for celebratory toasties."

Arthur also thought, to his great shame, that this was just another of his father's ploys, a way of binding Em's fortunes more tightly to the club. He was relieved when Em assured him that he'd kept certain consultancy clauses in his contract. Not that he _wanted_ Em dashing off to nurse other, more exotic injuries elsewhere in the league like some sort of on-call, track-suited superhero, but he could hardly come right out and tell him not to put all his eggs in the CFC basket without looking like a hypocrite. Or, worse, like he was jealous of Em's rising profile at the club.

Instead, he arranged with Will and Freya to throw Em a little surprise party the next weekend he was at theirs, with Em's favourite takeaway and a cake shaped like a foot. He let him rabbit on about joint loads, carrying angles and proper stretching technique whenever he wanted; he even let Em use him as a guinea pig for the new training manual.

In short, he tried to get on with being the best semi-closeted boyfriend he could be, and he kept his darkest thoughts to himself. And, like most plans involving self-repression, it worked brilliantly, right up until it didn't.

* * *

Things came to a head the last Wednesday in January, the night after the second leg of the League Cup semi-final. It was a stay-at-Arthur's night, so he was waiting in the car park at Knightswood, getting the M3 nice and warm while Em finished up his interminable bloody paperwork.

Arthur was thinking about the second goal he'd scored, the left-footed one, which he was especially proud of, and about how he wished Coach hadn't pulled him off at the half. It had been purely strategic, designed to keep his legs fresh for the weekend, but he'd really fancied his chances for a hat trick.

In the end, they'd steamed through 3-1 on aggregate. Caerleon were a classy side, and Camelot hadn't made it to the League Cup final since before Arthur was born, so the scene in the dressing room after had been a bit manic. Most of the lads hadn't even noticed the surge of tension when Uther had appeared, posh suits in tow. They were, Arthur knew, investors he was trying to impress, because he never visited the dressing room otherwise.

Thank fuck for Kay, who'd been his usual ebullient self, despite being starkers, and for Leon, who'd sussed the situation in a heartbeat. While the suits were busy trying to avoid Kay's enthusiastic welcome, Leon had urged Arthur to go hide in the bog stalls.

"Sorry, sir," he'd said when Uther had asked where Arthur was, "but he's shitting himself with excitement. Literally. Big night for the lad, seeing us to the final."

Arthur knew it was a petty victory, one he'd likely pay for in future, but in the moment it had felt brilliant. He'd been grateful to Leon for reminding him that, while his father's signature might be on the marching orders, in the trenches he was the Pendragon who mattered.

Arthur was still smirking at the memory when Em tumbled into the passenger seat, bringing with him a gust of chilly air. He pressed his hands up against the heating vent, flashing Arthur one of his thousand-watt smiles.

"Go on, ask me where I'm going to be in a fortnight, when the winter winds are howling at your door."

"In a fortnight? You'll be at mine, I expect. Buried in my arse, if you're lucky."

Em shot Arthur a look. "Awfully tempting, dollface, but no. And I told you to _ask._ Go on, ask me, like you're doing a post-match interview."

Arthur sighed. "Fine. Emmett, where are you going to be in a fortnight, when by all rights you really should be buried—"

Em elbowed him in the ribs. Then he clasped his hands under his chin, opened his eyes wide, and crooned (in a terrible American falsetto), "Why Ah'm going to Disney World!"

Arthur chuckled. "Sure you are, Mickey Mouse."

Em made a little tsking noise as he settled back into his seat. "That old thing? Seriously? Arthur, I've been waiting all my life for a legitimate excuse to say that line, and now you've ruined it with clichéd insults. Just for that I'm not bringing you back one of those T-shirts with the bikini tits on them."

"You're... Em, you're not really going to Disney World, are you?"

"Well, no, not exactly. But I have been invited to speak at a conference on sports medicine, it's somewhere near Orlando, and the club is paying for me to go. Hellooo mojitos and go-go boys! Or, er, golf. They have lots of golf there, right? Think you can teach me in two weeks?"

Arthur switched off the ignition. He turned and stared at Em in disbelief. "You're serious."

Em nodded, smile dimming somewhat as he took in Arthur's expression. "Well, not about the go-go boys—unless meet and greets have improved drastically since I last went to a conference—but yes. It's a bit of a coup, actually. One of the top ACL surgeons in the States saw my dissertation cited in a student paper. He was in the midst of organising this panel, on my topic, actually, so when—well, long story short he looked me up and voila! Florida in February."

Em's hand flourish faltered, and he dropped his hand to Arthur's knee. "And don't you dare pout, because it's only for three days. I'll be back in time to see you in action at the weekend."

"But Em, you _can't._ I mean, can't you see that..." Arthur trailed off as Em's smile disappeared completely and he snatched his hand away.

"Can't I see what?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, because I know you're aces at what you do, but isn't the whole thing kind of... well, unlikely? I mean, some top class American surgeon just _happens_ to stumble across your work and it just _happens_ to be what he—"

"What the fuck, Arthur?" Em broke in. He was proper angry now, his shoulders hunched and body held rigid. "That is the most completely—why would you say that? What are you even _trying_ to say?"

"That's it's suspicious is all," Arthur said, reaching for Em's shoulder. "That he probably set the whole thing up."

"He?" Em pulled away, twisting so his back was pressed against the car door. "He who?"

"My bloody father! Who else?" Arthur curled his hands into fists on his lap, looking away, out through the windscreen. Snowflakes were now visible, swirling through the sodium lamplight. "Em, don't you see what he's trying to do? Giving you all this extra work, sending you off on conferences. He's trying to keep us apart."

"What? But that's—" Em fell silent for a long, miserable moment. Then he snorted. "Fucking hell," he said. "Right then. Here's what we're going to do."

It was said quietly, simply, without heat, and Arthur felt the familiar easing of tension he experienced whenever Em took charge. He looked over hopefully, watching Em scrub his hands over his face and through his hair.

Then Em turned on Arthur, eyes hard, smile tight and unnatural.

"I am going to get out of this car, Arthur Pendragon. Then I am going to get back in, and we're going to start this whole conversation over with you not being a complete paranoid _wanker_ and proceed back to yours as planned. Or, if that's too difficult for you right now, then you're going to drive me to the station, and you can call me when you've come to your fucking senses."

Em was halfway out of the car before Arthur finally found his voice.

"I'm not being paranoid," he cried, slamming his fists on the dash. "I'm not. I... Em, he threatened to sack you, unless I keep my mouth shut. Unless I stay where he can keep an eye on me. And not just sack you, but blacklist you."

Em froze, but he didn't turn around. A sharp gust of wind sent a spray of snow in through the open door.

"He doesn't care about me having you _on the side,"_ Arthur pressed on. "But he doesn't want us going public. As a real couple, like. When I tried to explain how fucking offensive that was, how much you mean to me, he... Fuck."

Em lowered himself back into his seat, mechanically pulling the door closed behind him.

Arthur nearly choked on his exhale. He pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets, trying to keep the hot prickle there from welling up into actual tears. But when he felt Em's hand settle back on his knee, he gave it up as a lost cause.

"Em, I'm sorry," he rasped, groping for Em's hand and covering it with his own. "I thought it was mainly the drink talking, but it turns out it wasn't. I've been worrying about what he'd do next, worrying he'd start taking things out on you. But he's a clever bastard, isn't he, so instead he's stitching me up in the transfer market and shipping you off to the States. I... I honestly don't know what to do."

"Ssh, Arthur. Let's just get on home, yeah? Then we'll talk."

Arthur squeezed Em's hand where it lay on his knee. "You mean—"

"Arthur, look at me." Em pulled his hand from Arthur's grasp, touched the tips of his fingers to Arthur's wet cheek. When he turned into the touch, Em slid his hand into the hair at the base of his neck and gripped it tightly.

"I mean that you're still an utter wanker," he said, giving Arthur's head a little shake. "I mean that your father is a bully and you lied to me and I'm still angry, but I love you. All right? I fucking love you to pieces and you know it. So wipe your stupid face, then let's go home and play grownups."

* * *

It was a rough night. Arthur talked, then he listened, then he talked some more. He rationalised, apologised, and said many things aloud that had sounded _much_ better in his head (turned out the Florida gig was legit, and the whole thing had gone through Dr. Tally, so Uther likely didn't even know about it yet).

But, above all, he sat there amazed that Em was actually _there._ Living and breathing and still speaking to Arthur and, yes, looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards with the way he'd been worrying at his hair, but Arthur thought he'd never seen a finer sight.

_"I love you,"_ Em had said. He used fond little nicknames all the time, told Arthur he was gorgeous and perfect and sometimes even sleepily coughed up something that Arthur suspected was a term of endearment in his maternal grandparents' native Welsh. But he'd never just said it like that before, plain and exasperated, like it was this fucking obvious fact of life. _"I love you to pieces."_

Even after Arthur had wrapped his brain round the fact of Em saying it, it took him a while to realise that _this_ is what it meant: Em staying and listening and explaining (and even shouting and pacing and wrecking his hair), when he had every reason to tell Arthur to fuck off and leave him alone.

Then, when all the talking and all the listening was done, Arthur got to experience a whole new type of sex: makeup sex. _Bareback_ makeup sex. Because Em's other big news, that he'd come eagerly tumbling into Arthur's car with, but had never got a chance to tell, was that his latest test results had come in—he'd insisted on having one done a full three months from his last casual, pre-Arthur hookup—and he was free and clear.

Arthur was so emotionally wrung out by this point he just clung to Em's foot (which was the closest part of him, being in his lap) and said something daft about donating all their condoms to charity. But thank fuck it made Em laugh, which led to the makeup sex which, with Em, was nothing like the edgy, bitey, clothes-destroying kind portrayed on television.

Makeup sex with Em was a long, hot shower with his mouth shut and his arms braced high on the wall so Em could wash him carefully from top to tail. Then it was Em sprawling boneless on Arthur's bed, demanding Arthur massage _him,_ for a change, mumbling where to press and where to stroke and, to Arthur's surprise, where to stick his cock. His _naked_ cock.

"Want to feel you inside me," Em said. "No moving, just... Want to feel you fill me up. Just skin. And lube. Gonna wank with your cock inside me."

And he did, with Arthur trembling behind him from the effort of keeping still, both of them panting softly until Em started really clenching his muscles and Arthur started swearing and begging and hitching his hips forward, just a little, because he couldn't help it, it felt so damn good—and yes, maybe he was hopeless as a top, no self control at all—but Em only let go of his cock and rolled further onto his belly, saying, "Mmm, yeah, go on then. Let me feel you. Nice and deep."

He directed Arthur's hand onto his hip, looked back over his shoulder with hooded eyes and did this sort of arching, undulating thing with his torso that Arthur's hindbrain interpreted as an invitation to, "Go on, get in there and have a proper go!"

It was a hot, breathless, squelchy sort of heaven that was over far too soon, Arthur gasping, "FuckfuckEmohfuck oh fu— _Ungh."_ into the back of Em's neck as he came. And _came._ Em kept on squeezing until Arthur was fully spent. Then he relaxed and simply rocked against him as he resumed his wank, making contented humming sounds until he shuddered, sighed and went still.

"Flannel?" Arthur said once he felt confident of coherent speech.

"Not yet." Em murmured. "Let's be a sticky sandwich for a minute."

Arthur grinned and pressed his face into the wreck of Em's hair. He'd almost drifted off to sleep when Em said, "He'll see."

"Ngh?" Arthur shifted his face. "What's that?"

"Your father. He'll see. The people united will never be—" Em yawned hugely. "Mmm, what was I saying? Two heads, gorgeous. Better than one. We make a brilliant team."

Arthur chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah we do." He got it now, what Em had been trying to tell him, why it had been so arrogant—not to mention idiotic—trying to deal with his father on his own. He and Em, they _were_ a team, and as Leon and the lads had shown him, teammates had one another's backs. No matter what. It was such an obvious fucking metaphor; he really should have thought of it sooner.

"Hey, Em?"

"Mmm?"

"Who's captain then? Of our team." Arthur could feel Em's laughter in the clench and slide of his muscles, pushing at his softened cock. 

"Why, me. _Obviously."_ Em eased forward, pulling completely free, and turned so he was facing Arthur. He skimmed a hand down Arthur's flank, rubbed a broad circle over his hip and grabbed a generous handful of his arse, giving it a rough squeeze. "Please, you have the nerve to even ask that after the shite you were spouting earlier? You know you're going to have to work _this_ off for me if you want a shot at the armband."

Arthur scooted nearer, wedging a leg between Em's sticky thighs and palming the sides of his face. "Yes, sir," he said, kissing the corners of Em's mouth. "You know, Coach says the same thing, but it's never had quite the same effect."

"Mighty fucking glad to hear it," Em said with a sleepy smile. "Now, Captain says go fetch us a glass of water; I'm parched. And bring a warm flannel, too, unless you'd like to clean my thighs with your tongue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Kickette, the above-mentioned and undeniably fabulous "lady blog" of which Kay is a fan, natch.


	33. Set Pieces

The FA Cup tie on Saturday felt almost like a holiday. It was down at Abergavenny, where Arthur had spent a successful loan spell. He had a soft spot for their poky old ground, with its spartan facilities and jovial staff. They still had an honest-to-goodness tea lady who did the rounds with her trolley, and both teams, from the managers to the boot boys, pissed in a giant tiled trough in a shared bog between the two dressing areas.

Ever since Wednesday night, Em's faith that things would work out with Uther had been like a warm hand on the small of Arthur's back. Yes, it had been a post-coital declaration (and therefore suspect) and, no, they didn’t know _exactly_ what they were going to do, but it worked wonders for Arthur's mood. Not only was he playing good football, he was having fun doing it. It was the best sort of distraction he could have hoped for on transfer deadline day.

To be honest, it was never an even contest, but the Centurions punched well above their Championship weight. Their captain, Al, was a stocky, grizzled old thing who loved a good challenge and clearly remembered Arthur's moves. He got in a few solid blocks early on, and for the rest of the afternoon, regardless of the score, it was like a private game of one-upsmanship between them, complete with cheeky backchat and a running tally of pints owed.

At the end of the match Arthur asked to swap shirts, impressed by (and secretly delighted with) the hard test he'd been given. They swapped gossip as well, Arthur asking after some of the other lads he'd played with who'd moved on.

"So tell me, son," Al said at last, leaning in. "Is it true, what they're saying?"

Alarm bells went off in Arthur's head. He tensed, fingers digging into the shirt slung over his shoulder. "You've lost me there, mate. What is it they're saying?"

"That I'd be wasting my time with that bunch of lovelies over there." Al nodded towards the far touchline, where temporary stands had been erected for CFC's travelling support.

Gwen, Freya, Helen and some of their crew were celebrating—or, more accurately, Freya and Helen were snogging while Gwen was tossing one of those ridiculous inflatable Cup trophies around with a bunch of the others in netball fashion. She was wearing what he could only assume was one of her own creations, a red hat with multiple rainbow-hued bobbles of shocking size. It also had earflaps and a tail snaking down the back.

Arthur's laugh came out more nervous than he would have liked.

"Oh, hey, mate. Not for me to say. But I wouldn't try and chat up the double-headed brunette just there and, if you value your limbs, you'll stay well away from the one in the odd bobble hat."

"Ah, so that’s how it sits, eh? Fair enough." Al rubbed a hand across the grey bristles at the back of his neck with a little frown. "Didn't have you pegged as the type to settle down though."

"No, nothing like that," Arthur protested, clapping a hand on Al's shoulder and giving him a friendly shove. "It's our left flank you need to worry about. That's Gwen Thomas, Elyan's sister. Plus she's dating our number three. And my—uh—I mean, our physio, Emmett. She's one of his best mates, and he's one of mine, so, yeah, I guess I would have to get in on the maiming."

Al held up his hands and took a step back, laughing. "I think I get the picture, son. Loud and clear."

At that point the Centurions' keeper walked by, offering Arthur a hand and a wry, "Trying to make me look bad on the telly now, is that it? Fucking cunt. Well done."

When he'd gone, Al leaned in once more, nodding over Arthur's shoulder. "Say, is that your mate then?"

Arthur looked round. Several yards away, Em was crossing the pitch, heading towards Gwen. When he saw Arthur he smiled and did a complicated pantomime that Arthur took for, "Did you see that fucking thing on Gwen's head? It’s clearly malevolent, so I'm heading over there to rescue her."

Arthur laughed and gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up. He turned back to find Al eyeing him closely. His cheeks suddenly felt a little too warm.

"Yeah, that's our—that's Em. Brilliant physio. Bizarre sense of humour. I think it helps though, with the job, being able to…" Arthur trailed off, realising that he was babbling.

"You know he's a poof, right?"

Al looked so bloody sincere, so bloody _concerned_ for Arthur—he wanted to be offended, but all he could do was laugh.

"I promise you, mate, it's hardly a problem from where I'm sitting." And then, because he was still high on adrenaline and the sheer cockiness that winning induced, he winked, adding, "But I know for a fact he's taken, yeah? So don't go getting any naughty ideas, or it'll be maiming all over again."

Al's face darkened. Arthur instinctively took a step back, but Al just stood there, looking a bit angry and a bit puzzled, eyes darting between Arthur's face and the tips of his boots.

"Well now," he said. He cleared his throat, finally looking up at Arthur with deep, worried eyes and an expression that—to Arthur's great surprise—reminded him of how Al had looked before the high stakes matches, the local derbies or promotion playoffs, where only a win would do.

"Well now, you look after him then. Your mate." Al lunged forward and slung an arm round Arthur in what had to be one of the most awkward hugs ever, then he was jogging off towards the brick longhouse that served as the dressing rooms.

Arthur watched him go, wondering, until Gwen's strident, _"Emmett,_ give it back, you—my ears are bloody _freezing!"_ drew his attention back to the touchline.

* * *

For the rest of the weekend, Arthur couldn't get the incident out of his head, even after he'd talked it over with Em.

"You'll sprain a lobe if you keep thinking that hard, gorgeous," Em said on Sunday, setting two cups of tea down on the coffee table. He pushed Arthur's feet aside so he could sit on one end of the sofa.

They'd ventured out of Em's room to catch the Docklands-Wessex cup tie and the following FA Cup fifth round draw, but Arthur admittedly hadn't been paying much attention. As in, he hadn't the faintest idea how the Hardy Boys had come back from 2-nil down while Em was off showering and making tea.

"Oh, very witty, Emrys."

Arthur watched Em settle, hair wet and skin pink from his shower. He was bare-chested, clad only in a pair of his scrub pants, which made Arthur feel better about the fact that—with Will in Hong Kong and Freya off to the salon—he hadn't bothered doing much more than pulling on a pair of clean briefs and a T-shirt. The heat in Em's flat functioned, seemingly, on one of two settings: hot or really fucking hot.

Em pinked up even further under Arthur's scrutiny. He gave a little snort and crossed his arms over his chest. "Still fretting about Al then?"

"Yes. And no." Arthur tucked his feet up against Em's thigh. "It's Gwen, too. All her bloody e-mails."

"Er, not following. What does Gwen have to do with it, apart from the bit where you warned him off her? And cheers, by the way, for not minding that I'm a poof. I've been terribly worried what you'd think. Especially when you caught me with my mouth on your cock this morning."

Arthur jostled Em with his feet. "Oi! I'm trying to be serious here. About the future and shit."

"Ah." Em covered his face with both hands, wiping them downwards to reveal a grave expression.

Arthur nudged him again, laughing.

"What?" Em said. "This is my serious future business face. Proceed. You were saying something about Gwen and e-mails. Is she spamming you with all those treacly articles? I told her not to."

"No, it's fine. Really. It's just that she's got me thinking about the impact I could have on, you know, other players—like Al—or the kids coming up, that sort of thing."

Gwen had been sending Arthur links on occasion, ever since the first protest. All her messages were more or less the same, a brief greeting along the lines of, _Hi, Arthur. Pay no attention to Em he's a daft jaded NOODLE THIEF, things ARE changing and you should read this, maybe forward to your agent?_ followed by a bunch of URLs. There were links to gay fan groups, gay Sunday leagues, and favourable press on the growing supporters' movement, as well as numerous articles and blog posts on gays in sport and out celebrities.

It might have been annoying, coming from anyone else, but Gwen's earnest friendliness was a hard thing to resist. Even in his most cynical, heartsick moments, when Arthur felt like the John Barrowmans of the world might as well be from a different planet for all their lives had any bearing on his own, Arthur at least skimmed the articles.

Little by little, he'd got sucked into the stories of all the happy out people living their happy out lives all over the bloody country—this in contrast to the top tiers of football—and the whole debate as to why gay footballers weren't coming forward, whether or not they should, and what would happen when they _did._

Arthur couldn't help noticing that, for all the finger-pointing and rehashing of the same tired arguments, everything basically boiled down to, "We don’t have a fucking clue, do we? So one of you will just have to take the plunge and then we'll see."

"You know," Em said, pulling Arthur's left foot onto his lap, "Gwen is a dear, dear friend, and nine times out of ten I would advise anyone to take her good intentions, grab onto them with both hands and count themselves lucky. But…"

He glanced over, almost guiltily, then refocused his attentions on massaging Arthur's foot. "In this case, she doesn't have all the facts. She doesn't know about your father, and she can't possibly know what it would be like for you to… just, you've nothing to prove, Arthur."

Em paused, head bowed, thumbs pressing into Arthur's instep. "To Gwen or me or… anyone. You _are_ allowed to just get on with your job and keep your private life private, if that's what you want."

"No, that's not—Em, I want us to be out. _Out_ out. You think I want to go to any more club Christmas parties with my bloody sister? Watch you dance at weddings with everyone and their mum, but never me?" Arthur struggled up onto his elbows. "You, Em, _you're_ my plus one. I want us to be able to go on holiday and out to Avalon; I want to take you to The Kitchens—hell, I want you to steal my food while I'm in the loo and tell the barmaid it's for my own good."

"Er, what?" Em's startled, fond look shifted into one of puzzlement.

"Never mind." Arthur realised he'd never told Em about those two men at the restaurant, about how lonely and frustrated he'd felt watching them, because Em had been halfway to London at the time (fucking, as Arthur now knew, some nameless blond chav he'd pulled at his mate's local in an attempt to distract himself).

"Story for another day. Point being, I do want to be out, but I hadn’t really… Well, I'm not sure I want to be _the_ poster boy for queers in football, you know? To have everything we do dissected in the press, my entire career interpreted in terms of my epic gayness, and—"

Arthur noticed Em's mouth quirking up at the corners, the way it did when he was suppressing a laugh. He tried kicking at Em again, but Em grabbed his other foot and held them both fast.

"What? Em, are you saying you're eager to have your mug splashed all over the front page of _The Sun_ and the _Camelot Echo?_ Creeps like Mordred pawing through your takeaway cartons?"

Em rolled his eyes, still smirking. "God I _know,"_ he said, shoving Arthur's feet back towards him. "Don't think I haven't thought about it. Freya offered me pick of her wigs, and Will said he'll buy me some of those ridiculous aviators you famous people wear. Maybe your father's doing us a favour, keeping you in the closet—shall I ring him, do you think, give him my best regards?"

"Em! You can't take the piss about—that's not—oh no, get back here you slippery fuck. You're not getting off that easy!"

The impromptu wrestling match took them off the sofa and onto the floor where, after an inadvertent teabagging incident, they collapsed in a heap of breathless laughter.

Em wound up with his head pillowed on Arthur's heaving belly. As their breathing returned to normal, he reached up and pressed the tip of his forefinger to Arthur's chin.

"You know what though?" he said, eyes bright. "I only take the piss 'cause Gwen's right. You'd make a brilliant poster boy. In fact, you kind of seem born to it, Your Mental Eminence."

"I beg your pardon?"

Em smiled. "Your chin. That's one name for it, in anatomy. Always thought it'd make a good title."

"You're a queer fish, Emrys."

Em struggled up to a seated position. "And you adore me for it, yes?" he said, lifting an eyebrow.

Arthur sat up with a grunt, wrapped his arms around Em's ribcage, and dragged him back down onto the floor, nosing at the fragrant swirls of damp hair curling round his ears. "I do, Emmett. I really fucking do," he said. "And maybe Gwen's right. Maybe the whole world should know. Maybe I should put it all over hoardings and banners and have it slipped into the Queen's Speech."

"From paranoia to delusions of grandeur in a matter of days? Oh dear," Em said softly, digging his fingers into Arthur's hair. "Do I need to send you to Doctor Kilgary?"

Arthur's only response was to press his open mouth to the spot behind Em's ear, flicking his tongue out before latching on for a kiss.

Em let out a shuddery sigh, tilting his head to allow Arthur better access. "Oh... hmm. Fuck it. Don't care if you are barking."

* * *

In the end, they missed the FA Cup draw. Well, except for the part when Camelot were drawn at home against fellow league rivals Cumbria—one of the benefits of intra-club dating being that it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt a snogging session to find out who your team were playing next.

That night, over dinner with Freya, Helen and Gwen, they wound up having a more serious discussion about the whole out celebrities issue. Em seemed content to let Freya expound at length on things like "queer visibility across the class divide" while he shovelled prawn biryani into his face, but Arthur dove into the fray, emboldened by all the reading he'd been doing. Not to mention his own experiences. Because, really, Freya might be light years ahead of him when it came to consciousness and social justice, but she hadn’t a clue what footballers were like inside a dressing room, even the gay ones.

A couple of times he caught Em watching him, face inscrutable but eyes bright, and he felt something warm and fierce kick up inside him. There weren't _rules_ to this, for fuck's sake, no matter what anyone said. That was what Em had been trying to tell him.

Later, as he was doing the washing up with Gwen, he overheard Freya say, "What does your cock spout, Em, magic rainbow juice? What happened to the stray we rescued at Avalon? I honestly thought that before the month was out he'd be deep in denial and we'd be scraping your poor, pulpy heart off his posh trainers."

"Looks like you were wrong about him then, weren't you, pet?" Em said, and Arthur didn't need to be looking at him to know he had a fat smug smile on his face.

"They know we can hear them, right?" Arthur muttered to Gwen, dumping a handful of rinsed cutlery onto the drain board.

"I think we're meant to," she whispered back. She shot Arthur a quick smile, then raised her voice. "Freya may be crude and horribly unsubtle, but she always admits when she's wrong."

"Indeed I do," Freya called out. "Listen up, Sporty Spice, 'cause I'll only say this once."

Arthur and Gwen turned round. Freya held up her wineglass as if to make a toast.

"Honest to snatch, Arthur Pendragon, you do not put the dick in dickwad. You are a brave homoqueer, loyal and true. I take back what I said about the crochet hooks and bid you welcome to our family. There." She downed the contents of her glass, gave an angelic smile, and slid her hand over Helen's. "And now if you'll excuse us, I feel the urge to sup from the furry cup."

Everyone else laughed. Arthur groaned, shaking his head as Freya and Helen disappeared around the corner. "Christ, she's like Kay. But with, you know, lady parts."

"We call it a vagina," Gwen said sweetly, plucking a bowl from the drain board and resuming drying duties. "Just because you've no use for something doesn't mean you're excused from calling it by its proper name."

"Er, good to know." Arthur shot Em a pleading look before plunging his hands back into the soapy dishwater. Em only laughed harder, slapping his hand on the table.

* * *

Arthur was sunk deep in a dream when the alarm went off. He came to groggy and seemingly absent an arm. Em kissed his forehead, whispering tempting words about "sleep" and "stay" as he untangled himself. As soon as he was gone, however, Arthur missed his warmth. Then the pins and needles started, and he was wide awake.

This early, they had the kitchen to themselves. Arthur still didn't have the entire layout down, but he knew enough to do a basic breakfast, which never failed to earn him one of those genuinely pleased half-smiles from Em.

"I think I like you in my kitchen."

"Yeah?" Arthur kept one eye on the kettle as he braced himself to stretch his calves. "Better than you like me in mine?"

"Hmm, that's impossible to answer. You've got an unfair appliance advantage. But then all your dishes match, which attracts and repels me in equal measure."

Arthur chuckled. "I like the bits and bobs you've got here though. It's got more—"

"Don’t you dare say 'personality.' I don't know who taught you the meaning of that word, but—"

"What? Morgana says it all the time."

"Yeah, well, I think you'll find she means as opposed to _style._ And while I adore the pair of you to a degree that's probably unhealthy, neither of you had to tend bar in a chest harness for your book money, so trust me when I say—kettle's ready, by the way—that it sounds a bit condescending."

The toast chose that moment to pop up as well, so Arthur waited until they were settled at the breakfast bar to respond.

"So, all that class war stuff Freya brought up last night, is that really going to be an issue between us, Emrys? Are you prepared to boycott the heated seats in the M3, my posh cotton sheets and the really good lube?"

"Fuck no," Em said cheerfully, scraping butter across a piece of toast.

"Good. And speaking of Morgana. She was in my dream last night, this morning, whatever."

"Kinky."

"God, Em, _no._ Stop being such a—look, I'm trying to tell you something important."

Em leaned over and nudged his shoulder against Arthur's. "Sorry," he mumbled through a mouthful of toast. "Go on."

Arthur glared at him for a long moment before relenting. "I think she was trying to tell me… Well, I think I should ring my father. Try to talk to him again, you know, while we're both sober. Show him some of the stuff Gwen's linked me to, how my being out might not mean what he thinks it means."

Em's eyes went wide. He swallowed, coughed, and took a hasty gulp of tea. "Arthur, that's... Actually, I think it's brilliant."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And if that doesn't work, there are always solicitors." Em set his mug down slowly, swiping at a milky drip with his thumb. "I asked Will. He knows people in corporate, but says you'd be better off talking to Hector, finding someone who specialises in sport. He's been in the business long enough; he'd know who's the best."

Now it was Arthur's turn to cough. "Fuck," he muttered. "That does sound serious. Let's hope a chat will suffice."

"Hear, hear," Em said, lifting his mug and clinking it against Arthur's.

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence, Em's left shoulder pressed to Arthur's right.

Arthur rang his father later that afternoon, after training. It went straight to voicemail. He tried to keep his voice pleasant as he requested they have dinner some evening, at his flat. He realised that he'd never cooked for his father, that his father probably didn't even know he _could._

Next Arthur tried his private business line, but he got the message service. When he checked with Morgana, she told him her source said Uther had gone up to the hunting lodge.

Arthur sighed. "Fireside shagging holiday?"

_"No, that's the bit I find hard to believe, but apparently he went alone. Promise me you're not after murdering him, Arthur. At least not without me. He's been beastly to Leon, and it's making him tear out his beard. Which is not acceptable."_

In the end Arthur settled for leaving messages with all of the various staff and services he could think of and calling it a day. Feeling a bit giddy, he treated himself to a glass of wine and a luxurious wank with his old friend, the blue Adonis Classic Slim.

He didn't know why he felt so relieved, as nothing had been resolved yet, but after long weeks of worry he at least had a _plan,_ and he knew that, whatever happened, he wasn't alone.

* * *

Arthur's buoyant mood continued through Wednesday, the day Cenred's men came to Camelot for one of the odd mid-week matches necessitated by busy tournament schedules. Escetia had continued their climb up the table since CFC had beaten them on that dour day back in October, and Arthur knew they were hoping to embarrass the Gold Dragons in their own den. Which just wasn't going to happen, not on Arthur's watch.

True, they had lost Myror—who had indeed gone to Albion—and Coach had been told to make do with existing talent. Also, Kay was out with a sprained finger, which meant the very green Aglain was in goal, but Arthur didn't give a fuck. He felt absolutely massive, and he wasn't shy about saying so.

"I don't even care about winning, lads," he said in the dressing room, doing a quick jog in place to check the taping on his socks. "That's done. It's already happening. What I care about is putting a smile on Coach's face, and d'you know what will do that? We're going to spank them, fucking _spank_ them. We're going to send them and that wanker Jarl home seething with sore arses and little cartoon bluebirds circling their heads. You hear me? Just isolate their number seven, like Coach said, and work the ball out to the wings. Or route one it, if you must. I don't fucking care. I've got my legs on today."

"Dammit, Wart," Leon said, laughing. "I don't know what's got into you, but that was a captain's speech if ever I heard one. I've got absobloodylutely nothing to add. Do what he says, men."

"For Camelot!" Percy roared, and the whole squad joined in.

Arthur was practically bouncing all the way down the tunnel and onto the pitch.

"What's got into you?" Em whispered on the touchline, as Arthur took a last swig of water.

"I've got my lucky lip gloss on," Arthur said, daring a wink. He jogged backwards for a few paces as he entered the pitch, just for the pleasure of watching Em gawp.

The squad took Arthur's words to heart. Or perhaps Escetia were having an off day, because, try as they might, they just couldn't get a foot in the door. Percy was an absolute rock at the back, a towering, hard-tackling and very vocal rock. He was clearly determined to neutralise the Blackadders' pace through discipline and sheer bloody doggedness. Arthur could hear him all the way up the pitch, pulling Lance back, fussing over Gareth's positioning and warning Leon of developing threats.

"Young Aglain must be pleased," Elyan said cheerfully as he and Arthur set up to take a free kick. "What with Perce acting like a mother bear."

"And Aglain's his cub?" Arthur snorted. "I'll let you be the one to tell him that, E. Now, how much you want to bet I can put this top right, not a finger on it?"

By the break, Aglain had only had to make one save, and Camelot were up by two goals. The first had indeed come from the free kick (Elyan owed Arthur fifty quid), the second from a glorious breakaway. Arthur had tried to lay a pass on for Owain, but the daft sod had only passed it back, so what could he do but get his head and his hips down over the ball and slam it into the net?

In the dressing room, Arthur tuned out Leon and Percy's minor squabble over defensive tactics. He concentrated on necking down his packet of energy gel and watching the smug smile on Coach's face.

"You're after match ball again, aren't you, Princess?" Gwaine said, tightening the elastic around his ponytail.

"Fuck yeah."

"Cocky bastard." Gwaine grinned. "Don't get me wrong though—it suits you." 

Arthur grinned back.

Heading out towards the pitch, Arthur felt a sharp smack on the back of his thigh.

"Strut a little more, why don’t you?" Em murmured as he breezed past, leaving Arthur to bark out a startled laugh and deal with the odd looks this garnered him from the other players.

His chance for a third came not long after the second half began. Tristan interrupted a pass and shot the ball out to Gwaine, who broke forward down the wing. Escetia's defence adjusted in the nick of time, but Gwaine managed to win a corner off the legs of their left back.

They set up like they were going short, with Leon taking the corner and Gwaine lurking nearby. Arthur confounded his marker by just standing in the thicket of green shirts, not making the slightest move to get himself open.

Then, when the whistle blew, he legged it towards the far corner, away from the play. He turned just in time to see Gwaine, who had taken a short pass from Leon, put his leg through the ball like a fucking ballet dancer, arms spread wide.

The ball rose, rocketing towards Arthur past the loose knot of Blackadders who'd clustered in the goal mouth, expecting Gwaine to take a shot. Arthur ran to meet it, and the instant his feet left the ground he knew he'd timed it perfectly, knew he'd meet the ball at the top of his jump and be able to put all his power into whipping it into the net. His chin was tucked, his teeth were clenched and the ball had a beautiful spin on it, simply lovely, and—

_Fuck._

* * *

It was dark. Then there was a spark, a flash, a roaring sound like the sea, or maybe a crowd—yes, a crowd in a club, because there was a rhythmic thumping sound, low and fast, and all those lights flaring and dying in patterns before his eyes.

"... are, son?"

"Wart?"

"Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me, or lift a hand. Don't try to move your head."

"Emnem," Arthur slurred. Everything made sense now. He was with Em, at a club, and he was very, very drunk. It was time to leave. There were too many people crowded round and everything smelt funny. The bursts of lights didn't go away when he closed his eyes. "Time t'go now. Go home."

Arthur heard a lot of swearing, a barrage of orders and questions. He didn't understand why it was so complicated arranging for a ride; there was a taxi rank just round the corner.

"Hey, son, stay with us now. Stretcher's on its way. Can you tell me your name?"

"Arthur. Who th'fuck you are?" Arthur realised he was lying down. He wanted to get up, but somehow thinking about it wasn't making it happen, and there were all these blue hands, all over him, and he was starting to freak out. Where had Em gone? Why wasn't he telling this arsehole to back off? Why did everything smell like it was burning?

"That's it, son. And can you tell me where we are?"

"Course," Arthur said, angry now. He tried to bat away the blue hands, the grey fog that had begun creeping up around his head—who the fuck still used fog machines, anyway? Was it nineties night?

"Avalon."

More swearing. More hands. A mask on his face that he didn't want, but Em told him he had to wear. A great cry of, "One two three, lift!" and Arthur was rising, rising into the fog and all the sounds were falling away. He tried shouting for Em, to warn him about the fog, but it had him now and was squeezing him from all sides. The last thing he heard was a tiny, tinny, rather rude voice in his ear telling him to breathe.

"Breathe, Arthur. Jaysusfuck, just shut up and _breathe."_

Then there was nothing.


	34. Replay

Arthur was exhausted. It was too goddamn quiet, for one thing, and the pasta monsters weren't cooperating.

See, he _knew_ he was shouting for the elusive buggers to halt and stay where they were. He had so many questions (not the least of which was why the hell he was chasing them in the first place), but no matter how wide he opened his mouth, no actual sound came out. It wasn't fair. They had shimmering wings and too many heads and smelt of mouth-watering chicken; how was he supposed to keep up with that?

He would've thrown things at them, but there was never anything to hand. No convenient stones or exploding fireballs, and those stingy tomatoes only curled up their leaves and shuffled out of sight when he reached for them. So the monsters kept slipping away, around corners or across hazy fields.

Until he had the genius idea to just _stop_ running. So he did. And—genius!—the monsters slowed down too. They still wouldn't stop though, even after the sound got switched back on.

A persistent wheezing hum filled the air. Arthur could hear the faint rumble of conversation happening just out of reach, behind a door or tree or curtain, but not his own footsteps. Not his own voice. Not okay.

When the hands came, Arthur panicked, thinking the giant cavatappi had doubled back and snuck up on him from behind. But they were only hands, and it was actually quite nice, being forced to rest. He began dragging his heels on purpose, leaning up against the fuzzy grey walls or sinking onto the squidgy floor in the hope that the hands would find him there and hold him fast, forcing him give up the chase.

The sound worked better when the hands were on him, that was the other thing. Not that he always liked the channel—he could have done without the great gasping, seal-barking sobs and the volleys of different voices all trying to talk over one another—but it was far better than having no sound at all. And he'd heard singing once, which had been lovely.

His favourite sound, though, was the stories. Arthur hadn't the faintest idea what they were about, but if they were anything like the hands that accompanied them—stroking and squeezing and even sneaking little pinches—they were good stories.

"It's all right, mate," they seemed to say. "We know how fucking frustrating it is, slogging after those gluey bastards day-in day-out, screaming 'til you're blue in the face but never having a peep come out. It's a shite deal, to be sure. Why not have a kip with us a while? The flying tagliatelle will still be there in the morning."

Arthur had given up trying to speak by now, along with any hope of ever catching his quarry. But who was he to argue with the story hands? They seemed confident he'd get the bastards eventually, and he was content to rest and bask in their regard. So, when the room suddenly blazed with light and the monsters were no longer running away but _looming_ over him with distorted noses and gleaming bug eyes and he felt like—no, he _knew_ —he was suffocating, Arthur was seriously pissed off.

"What the fuck?" he wanted to say (but didn't). He'd got so used to not being heard, plus his throat was missing. No, wait, his throat was there, but it felt _awful._ There was something in it, something blocking it—goddammit, no wonder no one could hear him!

Arthur tried to sit up, to claw whatever it was out of his throat—he needed to get it out, get it out and find Emmett—which is how he discovered that his wrists were strapped down.

One of the looming people, the beardy one with the clunky specs, smiled wide. "Easy there, fella. Let's walk before we run, eh? Or breathe before we talk, in this case, which means no ripping out your tubes. If you can give me a blink on that, I'll undo the restraints. Apologies for that, by the way; you got a bit lively earlier."

Arthur stared up at the man, boggling at the lush thicket of hair sprouting from beneath his nostrils and flowing down across his chin. Where was Em? Hadn't Em just been here? And just where was here, anyway?

His gaze widened to take in the man's ID badge and blue uniform, the same colour blue as the blanket covering most of Arthur's body. The fit bloke beside him had on the same kit, and all around them there was a fuckton of medical equipment beeping and wittering and—ah, fuck, that just felt _wrong_ —pushing air into Arthur's lungs.

Fit bloke looked up from scribbling on a clipboard and gave Arthur an easy smile. "Hello, Arthur," he said. "I'm Ethan, and this is Oswald. You'll have to forgive his poor manners, by the way; you came to quicker than we were expecting. You're in hospital."

Arthur rolled his eyes, then glanced pointedly at the Camelot Royal Infirmary ID badges clipped to both men's breast pockets. _Fucking obviously._

They laughed. Oswald patted Arthur's shins. "Good lad. Can I get that blink now? Excellent." He began undoing the restraints on Arthur's wrists. "Ethan is going to get started on a few questions while I fetch Doctor Gorlois. She'll want to check you over before the tube comes out, but you shouldn't have to suffer it much longer."

Arthur tried a smile, but all the taping holding the tubing in place made it uncomfortable. He flexed his fingers, which felt sort of rubbery, and settled for a thumbs-up instead.

He got another pat from Oswald. "Yeah, it's hell, I know—Ethan, I think the man's ready for his comms—but always better out than in, eh?"

Ethan handed him a shiny rectangular board and a dry erase marker. The board had a little drawing of a naked man, a pain scale, lists of words, and a blank white space.

"Let's start with how you're feeling, all right?" he said, pulling up a stool as Oswald bustled from the room. "Point to as many of the words that apply. Or feel free to write on the board if you don't see what you need."

Arthur uncapped the marker, gripped it, and concentrated on filling the white space with one word: EMRYS?

"Ah." Ethan's lips quirked up at the corners. "Glad to see you remember _him."_

Arthur stared at the nurse, confused. Why wouldn't he remember Em?

"Anyway," Ethan continued hastily, "I _imagine_ he's still doing what he has been ever since the doctor threw everyone out, which is necking down cup after cup of what passes for tea round here and haunting the ward. Unless he's finally crashed in the break room. Third shift have sort of adopted him."

Arthur's snort manifested as an uncomfortable pressure in his sinuses, cut short when the ventilator kicked in again, forcing air into his lungs. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

"Easy there. You okay?"

Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and pointed to the big green "YES" on the board, because there wasn't a box for, "HELL NO PLEASE GET THIS THING OUT OF ME RIGHT NOW AND BRING ME EMMETT." And it would have taken way too long to write, especially with how sluggish he felt.

Ethan wasn't completely fooled though. He patted Arthur's shoulder and leaned in. "Hey, Oswald's probably already let him know you're awake. I can't promise the doctor will let him in to see you right away, but when she does we'll make sure you get a few minutes alone before the rest of your crew arrive. Sound good?"

Arthur pointed to the happy face on the pain scale, then to the box that read, "THANK YOU!" He wondered if they'd given him the children's version.

Ethan chuckled. "No problem, mate. He's been making our job dead easy, compared to that father of yours. Besides, I'm a nurse. I live to make my patients point at the smiley face." Ethan gave Arthur's shoulder one last squeeze, then sat back, eyes merry.

"Especially the rich, handsome ones, if you don’t mind my saying."

Arthur shrugged, or at least that's what he meant to do, but his shoulders only twitched. His body seemed to think it was on holiday; it was all _there,_ but it was hard making it do exactly what he wanted. So instead he pointed to the smiley face again. Just so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings though, he also pointed to Em's name on the board, then patted his chest, right over where—well, where he assumed his heart still was, under all the fabric and tape and electrodes. Ethan was fit and all, but…

Ethan rolled his eyes. "Oh, believe me, mate, _I know._ The vitals don't lie. If that man's voice had the same effect on all my patients, I'd pop him in my bag of tricks and never let him leave. Anyway, no worries. I'm as good as married myself; it's just that Oswald and I firmly believe in extracurricular flirting."

Arthur's surprise must have shown, as Ethan flushed and glanced towards the door. "Yeah, that's my big brute. But, ssh." Ethan tapped his biro against Arthur's board. "No telling dry erase tales. _Officially_ no one knows, else we wouldn't be allowed to work the same ward. I'll bet you two know how that goes. If the dressing room walls could talk, eh? Not that I'll be working any ward, if Doctor Gorlois gets here and finds me gossiping. So let's get started, all right?"

Arthur nodded, hoping the questions on Ethan's clipboard were much simpler than his chatter, as he could only make sense of about half of what the man had said.

* * *

Doctor Gorlois was a whirlwind of brisk commands, clacking heels and elaborately styled blonde hair. She seemed physically incapable of doing less than three things at once. Her eyes were kind though, and Arthur gradually relaxed as he realised that her impatience, whatever the cause, was not with _him._

Her lips curved up as she glanced at the clipboard Ethan handed her.

"Lovely," she murmured. "Your numbers are good, and Ethan assures me your sense of humour is intact. Let's check the others, shall we?"

At a nod from Arthur, she embarked on an all-out assault, poking and tickling him with various instruments that she whipped out of her seemingly bottomless pockets. After the prodding, he had to squeeze her fingers, try to kick her palms (which seemed rather rude) and follow a penlight up and down and all around with his eyes.

All the while, she kept up a running commentary, from which Arthur gathered that he'd had some kind of swelling in his head.

They'd put him in a coma to relieve the pressure, she informed him, and it had worked a treat. So, good news, they hadn’t punched any holes in his skull. Bad news, they still needed to assess the extent of any damage caused by the original injury. But his responses so far were excellent, given the drugs in his system, and he didn’t think he was the bloody Queen, so there was hope yet.

"Any questions for me?" she asked when she finished, handing him back the dry erase board.

Arthur, thoroughly exhausted by his efforts, dragged his finger to the red, "NO."

"You're sure? You lads usually—" She looked down at the board with a slight frown. "Hmm." She tapped the white part of the board with one plum-coloured nail. "Very well then. I see you're keen on having your family back in, but let's get you breathing under your own steam first. Ethan? Oswald?"

And oh, okay, Oswald was a fucking _liar,_ because having an endotracheal tube taken out was _not_ better, especially as he'd been blissfully unconscious when it had gone _in._ "Sucking face" took on a whole new meaning when Ethan hoovered the gunk out of his throat and, despite all his practice with Em, Arthur apparently still had a lot to learn about suppressing his gag reflex.

When it was done, though, he felt much more human. "Em now?" he rasped.

"Actually," Doctor Gorlois said, scribbling something on Arthur's chart, "I'd prefer you rest, before having visitors." She held up a hand, forestalling his protest. "But, as Mister Emrys hasn't made a complete nuisance of himself, and your vitals seem to like having him around—Oswald, do you think you could shanghai him without alerting the whole mob in the family lounge?"

"No need, Doc," Oswald said, swabbing Arthur's chin and neck with something that felt fucking heavenly after all that bloody tape. "He's at the nurses' station just round the corner. They'll send him over if you page them."

"No, in that case, I'll fetch him," the doctor said quickly. "I want to have a word first." She slid the chart into a rack at the foot of the bed and came round to stand at Arthur's side, her dark eyes searching his face. It was the stillest he'd seen her since she'd entered the room. He clutched the dry erase board to his chest.

"Mister Pendragon, brains are complex things, and yours took quite a knock."

Arthur waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he nodded, thinking she was looking for some sort of confirmation that he understood.

She sighed. "It might not feel like it right now, but you've been very lucky, so I'm going to tell you what I tell all the lucky ones. Don't push it, all right? Don’t get frustrated if you feel a bit slow, or can't remember things. Just relax, let us take care of you, and we'll see how things shake out."

Arthur nodded again, impatient. Yes, he was tired, and _yes_ he knew he'd done himself a serious injury—or had one been done to him? No one had exactly explained that. At any rate, he was awake now, he wasn't being pumped full of air like a fleshy robot balloon and Em was somewhere nearby. Forget lucky or unlucky—as far as he was concerned all was right with the world, so why weren't they breaking out the fucking champagne?

He closed his eyes as the doctor left, thinking he'd just rest them a moment while he waited for Em…

* * *

Arthur woke to a sore head, cranky muscles and a throat that felt as if someone had taken a cheese grater to it. But there was a very familiar pair of blue eyes looking down at him and a very familiar hand curled over his own.

"Em," he said. His eyes watered at the sting in his throat, but nothing could stop him from speaking now that Em was finally here.

"Emmett," he said, and there, _there_ was the quick dip of those black lashes and the morning kitchen smile. Two of his favourite things. He remembered that.

Em stroked Arthur's hand. "Hello, Arthur."

"Em, I hit my head."

Em's smiled widened, then wobbled. "Yes, I saw."

"You did? Then—" Arthur coughed, and suddenly Em was pressing a cup of water into his hand, helping him shift up the bed so he could sip it. He slurped at it, then frowned. "What happened? Did someone jump us? No, don't tell me—I did something incredibly heroic, right?"

Arthur grinned expectantly. He knew he wasn't looking his best—he felt greasy and somewhat ragged round the edges—but it was just so nice, after all the mutinous pasta monsters, to have Em here beside him, all solid and real and… making a very odd face.

"Um. Actually, Arthur, do you know a bloke called Agravaine?"

Arthur huffed and took another sip of water. "Course. Footballer. Floppy-haired old git, plays keeper for South Fields."

"Escetia," Em said, eyes locked on Arthur's. "He plays for Escetia now. Transferred in in early January. Record fee for someone his age."

"Oh? They're going to regret that. No one seriously thinks he has more than a season left in him."

"Have you seen him play then? I mean, recently?"

Arthur jerked, suddenly aware of the intensity of Em's gaze, of the soggy paper cup in his hand and the leaden, aching weight of his legs. He looked around at the room, at the chairs huddled in the corners and the thin, grey light coming in through slats in the blinds.

"In person?" Arthur croaked. "No. I don't know—what, Em, why does it matter? Why the fuck am I still _here_ anyway? I want to go home."

Em blinked, only this time there was nothing reassuring about it. He looked so fucking sad it made Arthur want to reach out and poke his lips back into a smile.

"Arthur, you… Well, let's just say you got punched in the head. Accidentally. And you're doing grand, but brains are tricky, yeah? So the doctors want you to stay here a bit longer where they can keep an eye on things."

"Things? What things?"

"Intracranial pressure, neural oscillations, the—oh, _fuck it._ What am I saying? Arthur, they want to make sure you haven't… scrambled something in there, that you're still _you."_

"Of course I'm still me," Arthur said, affronted. "How could I not be me?"

"But..." Em made a frustrated sound and ran his hands through his hair.

Arthur noticed that he had deep shadows under his eyes, that the skin on his lower lip was ragged and bruised. Shifting the cup to his left hand, he reached out with his right, brushing his knuckles up Em's forearm.

"Hey. Um... so, punched in the head, you say?"

Em exhaled wearily, but he nodded. "Accidentally. But yes." He gave Arthur a timid smile. "Head plus fist at high speed—ring any bells?"

"Huh, I..." Stalling, Arthur finished his water. Em took the empty cup from him with a knowing look and twined their fingers together.

"Don't worry about it, Arthur," he said quietly. "The important thing is that you're still breathing."

They sat in silence, Arthur's mind churning over what Em and the doctor had told him. Nothing added up in any kind of way that made sense though. Had he been assaulted by mistake? Did he break up a fight? Maybe it had been at that club, the one he and Em had met at. The one with the flashing lights and pounding bass and all the sticky, rum-scented panic. He remembered there being something that felt like danger there. Danger and freedom and everything he wanted, all wrapped up in one heaving, pulsing moment.

"Wait, I wasn't—Did I get fucking _bashed?_ Like, outside Avalon?"

Em's face crumpled.

"No, I can see that's not it. Please, Em, what am I missing here?"

"Ssh, calm down." Em shot a worried glance towards one of the monitors. He gave Arthur's hand a squeeze. "Doctor Gorlois says it's best you remember the details on your own."

Arthur swore. He glanced around, looking for a hint, some kind of fucking clue, but there were just the machines and the stupid posters on the wall and the chairs and the blinds and… the chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a giant plush toy, a dragon wearing a red and gold striped scarf.

"What's that?" Arthur said, pulling his hand from Em's grasp and pointing. "I mean, I know what it _is_ but why is it here?"

"Co—I mean, Gaius' kids sent it. Brought it. Well, he brought it, from them. As a get well." Em sat up straight, eyes now fixed warily on the monitor above the bed. "Arthur, do you know who Gaius is?"

Arthur snorted, which led to another coughing fit. When he recovered, he turned what he hoped was his most charming smile on Em and said, "Mate, no one calls him Gaius. He's _Coach._ Even the… even I… fuck. Wait, what? Em?"

Suddenly there were new images, new memories. They were tangled, but much clearer. They came on too fast, blooming in bright pops of colour and sound, and the air felt too thick for Arthur to catch in his lungs. Not the pulsing music of Avalon, but voices, thousands of voices, chanting into the low winter sky. The smells of grass and liniment. A flash of white, a blur of green and the feeling of flying.

It was his ball, he'd timed it perfectly, and he was going to bag his third.

"Mine!" he cried, and this time he could hear himself. "My ball!"

_Everyone_ must have heard him this time, for the blue people were suddenly crowding round with their glinting eyes and fingers.

"It was my ball," Arthur told them, pushing at them, pushing at the covers and trying to get up. "Mine. Ask Gwaine, he knows I was on a bloody hat trick. And they better not have stopped the match; a replay would be pointless, 'cause I'll just do it all over again and Agravaine will have to eat his fuzzing… whoa, his fucking sozz… Hey, Em, you tell'm whaz…"

The last thing Arthur remembered before he slid away was Em's laughter, his hot breath on the back of his hand and a muttered litany of, "Oh fuck, jaysusfuck thank _god."_

* * *

Arthur woke to a sore head, aching muscles and a throat that felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to it. There was a familiar pair of blue eyes looking down at him—familiar, but surprising, given the context.

"Hunith?"

She blinked and smiled, her fingers curling round the bed rail. "Good morning, Arthur."

"Wait, was that you singing? Not just now, I mean, but earlier?"

Hunith beamed. "Yes. We didn't know how much you'd be able to hear, but the nurses said it couldn’t hurt."

"Well, it didn’t." Without really thinking about it, Arthur reached out and plucked Hunith's hand from the bed rail, folding it in his own.

She huffed out a little laugh, her smile softening into a fond, worried look that made Arthur feel a bit self-conscious. But he didn’t let go.

"It's good to see you awake, love," Hunith murmured. "Em and your father should be back from the press conference soon. And your sister has just nipped out for a proper coffee. Would you like some water?"

Arthur stared. "What?"

"Water. They're giving you fluids through the drip, but they said you might want it for your throat. Would you like some?"

"No. Well, yes, but about Em and the—a press conference with my _father?_ What for?"

Hunith stood, gently pulling her hand from his grasp. She patted his cheek and headed towards the sink. "For the fans," she said over her shoulder. "They've been worried, naturally. Uther wanted to reassure them before the match." Hunith returned with a cup of water, motioning Arthur to lean forward so she could adjust his pillow before passing it to him.

Arthur gulped it down, crumpling the cup in his fist. "Reassure them of _what?_ Wait, which match? How long have I been here?"

"Oh dear, I'm not…" Hunith pressed her fingertips to her mouth. Then she stilled Arthur's hands, sighing. "Sorry, love. I'm coming at this from the hind end, aren’t I? Some nurse I'd make. It's only Sunday, eighth of February. They brought you out of the coma yesterday, but you got a bit agitated, so they sedated you overnight."

Arthur slumped back against the pillows in relief. "Sunday. Eighth. South Fields then. Away."

"Er, yes. I gather your team voted, and they decided you'd want the match to go ahead."

Arthur nodded, grinning. "Smart lads." Then he remembered what had been bothering him, apart from his confusion about where he was in time. "But my father, he… You said he'd be _back._ He's already been here then?"

"Of course, Arthur." Hunith gave his hands a reassuring squeeze, then gently extracted the crushed cup. "Except for all those phone calls of his, and the press statements, he's been here the whole time." She gave him a wry smile. "Driving everyone spare, if you must know, which is why Doctor Gorlois banned him from— "

The door opened with a soft click. Hunith started.

A fit bloke in blue poked his head through the door. "Morning!" he called. "All right then, Arthur?"

Arthur nodded, feeling like he ought to know the man's name. Edward, maybe?

"Lucid and nonviolent, so far," Hunith added, giving Arthur a wink. "He even remembered my singing."

"That's brilliant." The man turned to someone behind him, and Arthur heard him say, "I'll give you ten minutes, then it's time for his bath. And his vitals better stay nice and steady, or I'm chucking you out."

The door opened wide and Arthur watched in amazement as his father, Em, and Morgana filed into the room in a docile queue behind the nurse. They were all in dark suits, and it looked an awful lot like Em and his father were wearing matching ties. Matching _club_ ties.

Arthur stifled a nervous giggle and caught the nurse's eye. "Cheers, mate, but I don’t think I need the pallbearers just yet."

"Arthur!"

Arthur turned his head back just in time to see his father's fierce eyes lock onto his own. Then, to his great shock, Uther stalked round the bed and bent down, gripping Arthur's shoulders.

"Sir, I don't think—" the nurse began, frowning at the monitors, but Morgana hissed something in his ear and he fell silent.

Uther pressed his face to Arthur's hair and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Son, don't you _dare_ joke about such things. When I saw you in here, with all the… Your mother... Christ, Arthur, when I saw you so _still,_ like Ygraine, the last I saw her, I couldn’t…"

"Father?" Arthur whispered. Uther smelt of spicy cologne, but beneath it there was a hint of stale sweat, and when he pulled back Arthur could see that his eyes were red-rimmed and moist. He never spoke of Ygraine. _Never._

He searched his father's face, waiting for him to realise his slip-up, for the mask to come back down and his eyes to skitter away. But Uther just kept on looking at Arthur steadily, face heavy with emotion. He'd nicked himself shaving, Arthur noticed, and his nose hairs needed a trim.

"Arthur, I…"

Arthur still had a drip in, but he slid his arms up round his father as best he could and tugged him back down into a stiff half-hug. "Father, I'm all right," he whispered. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd tried to hug his father. He'd probably been in single digits. "I promise, you're not getting rid of me any time soon. Apparently, I've got a very hard head."

Uther laughed, a hoarse, wet bark that shivered unpleasantly across Arthur's ear. "I think I know where you got that from," he murmured. Arthur released him and he straightened up, rapping his knuckles against his own temple.

"Mister Pendragon?"

Uther glanced over his shoulder. "Thank you, Mister Emrys, but that won't be necessary."

Arthur was confused until his father stepped aside, and he saw that Em had been offering him a chair. Which was… Well, it was polite and all, but also completely fucking bizarre.

Arthur tried to catch Em's eye, but his full attention was on Uther. Who proceeded to _lay his hand_ on Em's shoulder.

"Now he's awake, I should really get over to the Citadel before they bury the gates in bloody carnations. You'll keep me informed though? That Gorlois woman is clearly—"

"Yes, sir," Em cut in. "I understand. I can give you the full rundown on his bath in a half-hour or so. And I expect they'll start him on real foods later. He'll need to pass solids on his own before they'll discharge him."

Uther coloured, dropping his hand. "Just the essentials, Mister Emrys, if you please."

Arthur heard Morgana snigger, but he was too bewildered to do more than stare as—after being interrupted _and_ apparently mocked by Em—his father proceeded to walk over and kiss Hunith on the cheek.

"My apologies again, about earlier," he murmured. "And, er, thank you. For lending your… perspective."

"You're very welcome," Hunith said firmly. "Thank you for allowing me to be here."

Uther waved his hand dismissively. He looked up, seeking out Arthur once more. "Arthur, I must go, but I'll be back tonight. And I... Well, let's put that dinner on our calendars, as soon as you're back on your feet. In the meantime, get some rest; you're in good hands."

Uther nodded stiffly towards Em and the nurse on his last words, then turned and went out, leaving Arthur gawping after him.

Morgana burst out laughing as she and Em crowded round the bed. "Oh, Arthur, you'll let the flies in."

"What the fuck?" Arthur muttered. "Er, sorry, Hunith."

Hunith laughed. "You go on and swear all you like, love. I think you've earned it."

Arthur turned grateful eyes on her before reaching for Em and Morgana, grabbing a hand in each of his own and gripping them tightly.

"Well then, will someone please tell me what the bloody _fuck_ has been going on around here? Because I know I've only been out for a couple of days, and that is not nearly long enough to grow a pod father."

"They've been very long days," Morgana said, leaning down to buss his cheeks.

Em bit his lip, trying to hide a burgeoning grin. "And, um. Eventful." For some reason he glanced over at his mother when he said that, and the nurse—who'd come over to fiddle with one of the machines, shot them both a disgustingly knowing smile.

"Tell me," Arthur demanded. If this was some kind of prank, oh, he would murder them. But what if it was just some other huge chunk of his memory that had gone fucking walkabout?

Em planted a soft kiss on Arthur's hand. "Sorry, I'm under orders not to get your blood pressure up."

Arthur tugged, forcing Em and Morgana to bend down. "My blood pressure will go up if you don't _explain._ Did they slip him drugs too? Give him shock treatments?" 

"If only," Morgana muttered.

"All right gang, I think it’s just about bath time," the nurse announced. "Everyone out unless you're helping."

Arthur glared over at him. _Ethan,_ that was his name. It was right there on his ID badge, the interfering wanker.

"You want me to stay and help?" Em whispered.

Arthur looked up at him, into the steady blue of his eyes, and clutched his hand even tighter. "Fucking please," he croaked, a cough tickling his throat.

In fact, he wished everyone _but_ Em would leave. Some stylist had clearly got their hands on him; his hair was finger-combed forward round his ears and shining with product. Arthur wanted to push his hands into it, erase what those stupid other fingers had done. He wanted to strip off Em's jacket and tie and burrow down to skin, to where Em smelled like himself, not the traces of Morgana's coffee, Uther's cologne and all the other strangeness in the room.

Em placed his free thumb on Arthur's chin, the tip just brushing his lower lip. "Then shut up and play nice," he said, giving Arthur _that_ look, the one that was all serious business topped with a hint of mischief. "I will explain everything in due course. When the doctor says your addled monkey brain can handle it."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Em, but he nodded.

Em raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Arthur's mouth.

Ignoring Morgana's smirk, Arthur smiled. "Yes, sir," he whispered, releasing his hold.

Then the coughing took him, so he couldn’t fully appreciate the expression on Hunith's face when Morgana told Em that, seriously, if he ever wanted to give up his day job, he could probably do very well for himself at this club called Dungeons.


	35. Give and Go

Arthur was moved from the ICU Sunday evening. He had a quiet, not entirely awkward, not entirely tasteless dinner with his father and Morgana in his new room while Em took his mum back to her hotel. Uther's mind was clearly elsewhere at times, and he kept excusing himself to take calls, but when he _was_ present he was… well, not entirely horrible.

At Arthur's request, he gave an account of CFC's victory at South Fields. It was brief and dry—he'd never be mistaken for a pundit—but Arthur appreciated the way he sketched the run-up to the goals with knife and fork, giving each man his due. Arthur did not miss Morgana's proud smile whenever Leon's name was mentioned, nor the way Uther's expression softened as he watched her.

"It wasn't always stylish, but they pulled it off," he concluded. "As promised."

Arthur nodded, swallowing his spoonful of soup. "Crucial three points if we want to finish top four."

Uther paused, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes flicking up to meet Arthur's.

"What? Albion aren't going away."

"Don't be ridiculous, son," Uther said impatiently. "They weren't playing for the bloody points. They did it for _you."_

"Oh."

" 'Oh,' he says." Uther set his fork down, giving Morgana a wry smile. "Well at least he hasn't lost his eloquence."

It was the only reference his father made to his injury. In general, the conversation skirted round difficult subjects, despite Arthur's longing for more information. At one point Uther called Hunith a "brave woman," but he didn’t elaborate. And when he remarked dryly that Em was very "resourceful," Arthur couldn’t tell whether he meant it as an insult or a compliment.

He wasn't up to arguing though, so instead he said, "What's this I hear about you letting the punters gather in the Citadel to watch the match on the jumbotron today? And at half Category C prices, no less. Father, if you're not careful you may get a reputation for actually caring about your club."

"Prioritising financial solvency does not preclude caring," Uther retorted, shaving a neat slice off his chop. Morgana rolled her eyes, and Arthur had to cough to cover his laugh.

As Uther left for the night—once again on his mobile—he grasped Arthur's shoulder firmly, mouthing, "Sleep well, son."

As soon as he'd left, Morgana told him that CFC were donating half the gate receipts to the local youth centre.

"Really?" Arthur smiled. "That's my all time favourite charity gig—nothing but kickabouts and getting my arse whipped at Nintendo."

"I know," she said, eyes twinkling. "That's exactly what Em said when our father _asked_ him for advice on the matter. After he got over the shock, of course; I thought the poor darling's eyebrows were going to leap right off his face."

* * *

Monday was much more lively. In between various scans, Arthur received a steady stream of visitors.

"I've seen some pathetic attempts to get out of a trip down to South Fields in my day, but this takes the cake," Coach said gruffly, grasping Arthur's arm. Then he leaned in and whispered, "Hurry back, son. Young Dagonet's trying, but there's just no filling your boots."

Gwen had work, but she sent a hamper of homemade scones and toffees along with Lance, who seemed _awfully_ chipper for a man visiting a mate in hospital.

Hector brought a fruit basket—which sent Kay into paroxysms of laughter—and relieved well wishes from all the sponsors, especially Excalibur, who had been worried that Arthur's hair might have been shorn.

"No worries, Hec. Just the one spot," Arthur said, tilting his head to show everyone the impressive knot and scabby, stitched-up patch where the skin had split behind his left ear. "On my head, that is; my chest is a mess from all the electrodes."

"He looks like he's got mange," Kay confirmed cheerfully. "We're thinking of having a whip-round to buy him a chest wig."

At Arthur's request, Em stuck close. It was good to see everyone, but also rather overwhelming, and Arthur had a lingering sense that all his pegs weren't back in the proper slots. Having Em at his side, or even just in his sight line, allayed the little tendrils of panic that crept up when he couldn’t quite keep pace with the conversation.

If the lads thought it odd that their physio was camped out in Arthur's room, they didn't act like it. Leon goaded Em into telling an (edited) account of Arthur's not remembering _exactly_ who he was when he first emerged from the coma drugs. Em rose to the occasion, doing an impersonation of a doped-up Arthur that had them all snickering, all save Percy, who looked like someone had suggested he go stomp on kittens.

When Elyan asked him what was wrong, he gnawed on air for a good while before bursting out with, "You forgot _football?_ Wart, mate, how could you—and how can the rest of you lot laugh? That's a fucking tragedy!"

All told, it was a bit of a squad party, albeit with hospital tea instead of high-end booze. They raided Arthur's get well stash, gobbling down fruit and sweets and sucking helium from the balloons. When word got out that there was, as Ethan put it, "a critical mass of mint footballing flesh" in room 309, a bewildering array of nurses began dropping by on various pretences. Arthur had his temperature and blood pressure taken half a dozen times by half a dozen different people, and he made Em spurt tea out his nose when he quietly suggested they ring Morgana and warn her that Leon was about to be kidnapped by the bears from ICU.

The party ended abruptly when Gwaine (quite vigorously) mistook Doctor Gorlois for someone who wanted to give him her mobile number. She threw the lot of them out, making it clear to Arthur that this was _not_ what she had meant by taking it easy.

* * *

That evening, as Arthur and his father awaited another masterpiece from the hospital food service, Doctor Gorlois produced the results of the latest scans and more or less told him to pack up his circus, get the hell out, and go rest— _actually_ rest—in familiar surroundings. Provided he had round the clock supervision, which was where things got truly brilliant.

Uther offered the Camelot townhouse, one of his staff, and Dr. Tally on call for the daily assessments. Arthur insisted on returning to his own flat. Dr. Gorlois butted in with a sharp, "I said _familiar_ surroundings, Mister Pendragon, and that includes people. If he's amenable, I'd suggest that Mister Emrys stay with your son. He's a natural caregiver, has the appropriate medical training, and, most importantly, he _knows_ Arthur. If something's off, I guarantee he'll notice before any standardised test."

"Mister Emrys is, I believe, due to speak at a conference in the States on Thursday," Uther said, glaring at the back of Dr. Gorlois' head as soon as she turned around.

"Mister Emrys made arrangements to participate via Skype," Em said, slipping into the room behind the volunteer with the supper trays. "Saving Mister Emrys's employer a bit of cash, I might add."

"I can't argue with that," Uther murmured.

"Em, no!" Ignoring his father, Arthur accepted his tray from the blushing volunteer. He thanked her, then turned his eyes on Em. "Florida in February, mate. You can't pass that up."

Em stared back without blinking.

"I mean, it's your choice, obviously, but I don't want to—" Arthur gestured in frustration, nearly upsetting his tray. _I don't want to be a burden,_ he thought. _I don't want to hold you back._

"Arthur," Em said gravely, shaking his head. "It's too late now. I've already installed the heat lamps and potted palms, and there's sixty kilos of bleached sand due to be delivered to your guest room tomorrow morning."

"What?" Uther exclaimed. "I never approved— _ah."_

* * *

Tuesday morning, the media were duly informed that Arthur was being "released into the care of club medical staff." Which was the greatest euphemism ever, as far as Arthur was concerned, given that it translated to him sitting in his own glorious (if not clawfooted) bathtub that night, tucked securely between Em's long legs.

Though the left side of his head resembled an overripe fruit, he'd been otherwise lucky; he hadn't broken or sprained anything when he'd fallen. Mostly he was just bruised and sore, muscles cranky from inaction. The warm, fragrant water—not to mention finally being _alone_ together, skin to skin—felt heavenly.

_"God,_ Em. Care of club medical staff for the win. This is so much better than sponge baths." Arthur fought to keep his eyes open as Em scrubbed a soapy flannel across his back in slow, firm circles.

"Mmm," Em agreed. He ran the flannel up Arthur's neck, then gently cleaned round the shorn, tender portion of his head. "Lean back and I'll do your front."

Arthur dutifully repositioned himself, head pillowed on Em's chest, but he took hold of his wrists before he could start scrubbing. "Hey, you okay? Fairly certain I can manage washing myself, if you want to turn in."

Em had been subdued since they'd left hospital. Arthur wondered if he was just exhausted or if—given recent events—he was reconsidering just how deeply he wanted to be involved with the Pendragon family. Even when his father had his claws sheathed, he could be very overbearing.

"No, it's fine, just…" Arthur felt Em tense for a moment. His chest rose and fell several times before he continued. "Really. I like this, Arthur, like doing this for you. _Need_ this, actually, after… Well, it's been a long day. And a bit weird, you know?"

Arthur knew, and weird didn’t even begin to cover it. After a final battery of tests and a formal media session, they'd been greeted outside hospital by an impromptu mob of fans and gutter press. Clearly someone from the hospital had talked—in spite of Uther's threats—as some of the questions hurled at Arthur had cut close to the bone: Could he confirm or deny the existence of a "secret lover" who'd spent nights by his side?

Hilariously though, they'd been keen to pin the rumours, not on Em, but on _Hunith,_ who'd been observed coming and going and was an unknown quantity. Uther had promptly proclaimed her an old family friend, giving the assembled pack a look of such utter contempt Arthur imagined balls shrivelling on the spot. Hunith had been a sport about it, pinking up and laughing until her eyes watered, but Arthur knew he was going to be living down MILF jokes in the dressing room for some time.

Arthur yawned. "Yeah, I don’t know what's more surreal, them assuming I was having it off with your mum, or the thought of my father and his entourage walking in here and discovering that we've got lube and leather gear scattered about the place the way some people do potpourri." He tilted his head up, catching Em's fleeting smile.

"It's not _scattered,"_ Em said, yawning as well. "It's strategically placed, to allow for spontaneity. And I'm not the one who left a butt plug in the dish drainer."

Arthur chuckled. It was so something Em would say, and the fact that Arthur recognised this went a long way towards dispelling his lingering uneasiness at having lost a few days.

"What do you reckon we owe Morgana for dashing over here and hiding all traces of our spontaneous lifestyle?"

"Well, firstborn's out of the question, so... I dunno, bottle of posh gin?" Em rested his chin on the top of Arthur's head. "Sorry about that though; should have thought of it sooner, popped round for a clear-up last night."

"Shut it," Arthur said, giving his hands a squeeze. "You're my secret lover, not my PA, remember? Well, and you're my Nurse Ratched, for now."

That got a snort. "Christ, Arthur, that is the most disturbing—have you even seen that film?"

"Have I even seen—I have read the _book,_ mate. Footballers are allowed to be cultured these days, you know. Even the English ones."

"Mmm-hmm. So are you the one who chokes me or the one who cuts his throat?" Em said darkly. "Because either way I don’t like where this is going."

"I didn’t mean it, like, literally. Only I know Doctor Gorlois charged you with making me rest and not have _any_ sort of fun for the next few days." Arthur attempted a sort of sideways and upside-down seductive eyebrow waggle, but it pulled uncomfortably at his stitches.

Em didn’t seem amused.

Arthur huffed, rubbing his thumbs over Em's knuckles. "Sorry. Fuck long _day;_ for you I expect it's been a long _week."_

"No longer than yours." Em said, sighing. He pressed a kiss to Arthur's good ear.

"Yeah, but I had the easy part. You had to deal with my father; all I had to do was lay there uncon—"

"Arthur, _don't…"_

"Em?" Arthur could feel the tension in his arms again. "I was just—"

"No, I know," Em cut in, voice raw. "And I know injuries come with the job—obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have one—but I never…

"Look, Arthur, bleed all you like, all right? Sprain things, bruise things, break both your legs and every last toe, just please, _please_ never go down like that again."

Arthur heard a wet gulp, a loud snuffle, then Em was squeezing him tightly with arms and thighs, face mashed up against the undamaged side of his head.

"Em?"

"You just _dropped,"_ he said shakily. "Like a… I don't know. Didn't even try and break your fall. I've seen it before, but not like this, _never_ like this because… I'm supposed to be trained for this, Arthur. I'm supposed to know what to do, and of course I'm fucking doing it. I'm running, I'm looking you over, I'm thinking, 'I will flay that man alive if he doesn’t get that oxygen out here right fucking now,' but I'm also thinking, 'Jaysus, Em, he's the best, the most _perfect_ thing that's ever… What if he never gets up?' "

"Hey, oh—Emmett, ssh, I'm here." Arthur tried to twist round, but Em was holding him fast, not giving him an inch. "I'm fine. It'll be all right."

"But I haven't told you the worst part," Em whispered. He began to tremble, and it took a moment for Arthur to realise that he was crying—near-silently, trying to swallow his tears. "That first night, in hospital, I got so… _Fuck."_

Arthur waited it out, absorbing the tremors and the choked, wet sobs. He closed his eyes and stroked Em's wrists until the trembling stopped.

"Shit," Em said, loosening his grasp. "Sorry. Shouldn't be doing this now."

"Em, do you remember what you told me on our first date?"

"Huh?"

"Do not fucking apologise to me. Not for this. Neverever. I don’t care what Doctor Gorlois told you; the best thing for me right now is to know what's upsetting you, so wipe your nose—yes, on my hair, if needs be—and dish."

That got a rueful, snot-choked laugh. Em handed the flannel to Arthur to hold while he rinsed his face and blew his nose on a section of bog roll. When they were settled comfortably once more, Arthur pushed the flannel into Em's hand, saying, "Go on then. Scrub while you talk."

Em tangled their fingers together briefly as he took the flannel, giving a squeeze before starting in on Arthur's chest. He paid particular attention to the gummy tape residue around the pale, stubbly patches. "They always say this stuff is easy-off," he muttered.

Arthur held his tongue, letting Em work out the last of his tension.

"Short version okay?"

"Sure. For now."

"I freaked out," Em said softly. "When they wouldn’t let me see you. I was there in the ambulance, then they took you away, and next thing I knew they were saying they couldn’t release information to anyone who wasn't—um, yeah, anyway. I panicked. I lied, said I was Doctor Tally. Worked long enough for me to find out they'd put you in a coma."

Arthur smiled and lifted his arms so Em could do his pits. "Mate, Tally is three times your age, and he's got a beard. Plus he used to _work_ there, didn’t he?"

"He hasn't done rounds there for ages, and the nurses change over all the time. No, it would have got me in if your father hadn’t arrived."

"Shit."

"Mmm."

"And?"

"He just stormed through with his bloody _people,_ and I got left behind. Got told to go home, actually, and that someone would be in touch. Which led to another freakout."

"Ah, a sequel." Arthur settled his arms on Em's thighs while he rinsed out the flannel. "Bigger? Badder? Twice the explosions?"

_"Arthur,_ no, I... I got so fucking pissed I barged onto the ward, all right? I marched up to the first nurse I saw, and I told. I outed us, Arthur. In front of a crash cart and an emergency eyewash station. Not that that's significant, but—"

"Wait, what?" Arthur tilted his head back. "Outed us how? What did you say?"

Em squeezed his eyes shut. "It doesn't matter, actually, because luckily—"

"No. Dammit, Emrys, I want to know."

"I thought you wanted the short version."

Arthur braced his hands on the side of the tub, heaved himself forward and scooted round so he was facing Em. "Changed my mind. What did you say?"

Em chucked the flannel at Arthur and pulled his knees up, hugging them to his chest. He stared down into the water until Arthur prodded him with a foot.

_"Fine."_ Em gave him an exasperated look. "I said, 'That man in there is the love of my fucking life. He says he wants to wake up next to me when we're _eighty_ and my arse has gone to seed, so I'm sure as shite going to be there for him when he comes out of that coma.' Except with more swearing."

Arthur grinned. "And what happened?"

"Well, luckily that nurse was Oswald, and—leaving out the part where he thought I was stark raving and nearly called security—he bundled me into a room, jabbed me with something absolutely _brilliant,_ and fetched Ethan. Who made me call my mam."

Em mumbled a bit on his last words, eyes sliding away. Arthur nudged him again. "Mate, there's no shame in that. You needed someone who… well, who understood, right? And who could vouch for you."

"Yeah, but—"

"Em, as far as I'm concerned, your mum being there was brilliant. I'm glad she came. Especially seeing as how she apparently implanted a warm fuzzy robot chip in my father."

Em looked up through damp lashes, and Arthur wondered why he'd thought it a good idea to move further away. He scooted forward, tugged Em's knees apart and did a sort of awkward bellyflop between them, sending water sloshing over the side of the bath.

"Ouf." Em grabbed the sides of the bath, bracing himself until Arthur had settled in, propping his chin just above Em's navel.

"What did she do to him, actually?" he said. "Scrambled minds want to know. I mean, he called her a 'brave woman' the other night, which had me panicking that he'd been chatting her up until Morgana reminded me that _'fine_ woman' is his code for potential shags."

"Oh _ugh,"_ Em said, wrinkling his nose. "Give us the flannel. I think I need to wash out my brain."

Arthur pretended to hand it up to him, then yanked it away and tossed it over his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Em's waist and planted a smack on his wet belly, pulling a face when he got suds in his mouth.

"Blech. Smells great; tastes terrible. Definitely don’t want that all up in your head."

Em smiled and hesitantly settled his arms round Arthur, skimming his hands up and down his back.

"You're going to hate me for saying this, but I don’t entirely know. What Mam did—or said, rather. At least I assume it was something she said, because when they came out of the gents things were much more civil, and I _refuse_ to think of my mam doing any of the other things people get up to in there."

"Whoa, back up. Came out of the gents? Your mum—"

"Cornered your father in the bogs, yes. I don’t think that's what she'd intended when she asked for a private word, but he brushed her off. In a not-nice way and, well, Mam's from Welsh stock and she fell for a bloody Irishman, so it's no small thing to say she doesn’t take kindly to people like your father treating her like dirt."

Arthur grimaced. "He's like that with _everyone,_ actually. Not that it's an excuse. Believe me, Em, I was hoping to spare her meeting him as long as possible."

Em stroked a thumb down Arthur's nose. "You're underestimating my mam. Whatever she said, it cowed him something fierce. He bought me a fucking cup of _tea_ —that shite from the machine, but still—and said, 'What is it you want from my son, Mister Emrys?' I was still a bit loopy from whatever Oswald had given me; for a second there I contemplated telling him it was all about your fabulous arse."

"I'd have given a month's wages to witness that."

"Alas," Em said, stroking Arthur's cheek now, "tea-water and better sense prevailed. I told him that it was about what I wanted _for_ you, not from you."

"Aw, Em, that's—"

"Yes, well," Em rushed on, ears pink. "Then I believe I made a ridiculous, impassioned speech about just wanting you to wake up, be healthy and chase footballs for ever and ever because it made you happy."

"And that did it?"

Em shrugged. "I guess. Because then it was all-access passes and a weird sort of truce, especially after the catheter incident, which—no, don't make that face at me, because I've been sworn to secrecy—used up Doctor Gorlois' last ounce of patience where he was concerned."

"Catheter, as in my—" Arthur winced. That, like the endotracheal tube, was another experience that he didn’t care to repeat. "Em, you can't just _say_ things like that to a bloke and waltz away."

Em solemnly put his finger in front of his lips. "Just promise you'll never ask your father what happened to his bespoke loafers from Tricker's."

"Uh, right. Well," Arthur said, closing his eyes and pillowing the undamaged side of his head against Em's stomach. "Going to pretend I didn't hear that."

* * *

They lay and soaked for a while longer, adding more hot water when it got too cool. Arthur pestered Em for further details, feeling there was still something he was missing, but his mind began to wander, either from the injury or plain old exhaustion.

Doctor Gorlois had assured Arthur this was normal, had cautioned patience as he recovered—and at this point it seemed he was beyond danger of mistaking his socks for his breakfast—but it was still unsettling. What if some of the pieces never came back? What if he'd fried the synapses that allowed him to spot gaps before they developed or made him fearless in a challenge?

According to the papers, over 10,000 fans had gathered in the Citadel on Sunday as a show of support. It was a fraction of the stadium's full capacity, but to _pay_ to watch a match on telly, outdoors, in February? Arthur hated to think of those people shaking their heads over their pints, saying, "Shame about Pendragon. Used to be so sharp."

It put being outed in perspective though. All those people willing him to pull through, wishing him a speedy recovery—surely they'd prefer learning he was happily shacked up with a man to discovering he'd lost his bottle on the pitch?

"Em," Arthur said, fighting another yawn, "I still don't get why you've been beating yourself up about the Oswald thing. Pretty sure he didn't grass. Besides, I'm as much to blame in the verbal trots department. To hear Ethan tell it, I emerged from the coma practically spouting sonnets proclaiming my love for you."

Em shifted beneath him. "Yeah, he mentioned that. Those drugs are insane though; you couldn’t help yourself."

"But isn't the whole point—" Arthur opened his eyes and looked up at Em. "—that we shouldn’t _have_ to?"

Em blinked. Then his eyes lit up and a smile slowly spread across his face. From this angle, Arthur thought he looked a little crazed, but that was probably just because he could see up Em's nose (being in hospital had given Arthur a new awareness of nose hairs; he was kind of disappointed to see that, unlike the wild thatch between his legs, Em's were sparse and tidy).

"Yes, _that,"_ Em said. "That's it exactly. That's what's been pissing me off."

"Er, sorry. Mind wandered up your nose. Say that again?"

Em cupped Arthur's shoulders, thumbs moving restlessly back and forth. "Look, it's morbid, I know, and selfish, but all week I kept thinking that, if you’d died, the whole fucking country would be in my face—free to link arms, sob on telly and leave all their crap outside the Citadel—whereas I'd have to make do with a minute of bloody silence. Except around the dozen or so people who have even the _slightest_ idea what you really mean."

Em squeezed Arthur's shoulders before lifting his hands, suddenly animated, carving the air the way he did when he got juiced up about something. Arthur smiled. He could watch Em like this for hours—days, even. He thought it was silly the way he got so nervous in front of cameras. If only he'd relax, he could probably reel off a bunch of anatomy shit in Latin and everyone would just nod along, mesmerised.

Arthur blinked, refocusing on what Em was saying.

"… why it _matters_ that everyone know. Not just the people I feel safe with. Not that we're anyone else's business, but—look, when we were ambushed today, there was a part of me longing for some dickwad to say, 'Arthur, is it true you take it up the arse?' just so I could grab his mic and say, 'Why, yes, actually. And he bloody loves it. Cocksucking too. And the odd bit of cookery.' Let them get a bloody pull-quote out of _that._

"Then we came here and, after _everything_ that's happened, I wound up sitting next to your father making fucking small talk about your fucking sound system like a nelly wanker while his staff went through the charade of setting me up in the guest bedroom. It made me realise that I—"

Em paused, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Shite, this really isn't the time for this, is it?" he mumbled.

"Emmett," Arthur said, "I'm warning you; if you don't finish that sentence you _will_ be sleeping in the bloody guest room. Without my glorious body heat and sorely neglected—"

"I'm ready," Em cut in, nodding. He settled his hands back on Arthur's shoulders. "That's what I'm saying, Arthur. I'm ready, whenever you are. I want a life with you, and if that means I need to come out at work, or work somewhere different—if a part of our life has to be lived in the public eye, because of who you are—then so be it."

Snogging in the bathtub, especially when both parties were mostly horizontal and one was trying to keep his wounds dry, was no small task, but Arthur gave it his all. Em seemed taken aback by his ardour, murmuring, "Oh, hey what... are you sure you... _mph."_

Arthur thought of pausing to explain to Em that, yes, _clearly_ this was a situation that called for snogging, and if Em couldn't see that then, for all his cock savvy and general awesomeness, he wasn't nearly as experienced as he thought he was. Instead, he opted for adding more tongue and a bit of groping. Em didn't complain, at least not until Arthur got soap in his eye.

He might have persevered even then, but Em pointed out that the bubbles had packed up and the water was cold. And that, if they looked closely, they'd probably discover that their foot wrinkles were starting to develop wee wrinkles of their own. Arthur conceded the point with a laugh, easing off and letting Em help him out of the bath.

Still, he had a hard time keeping his hands (and his lips) to himself as they dried off and brushed their teeth. He wound up with lotion and toothpaste in places they weren't really meant to be, and by the time they made it into bed Em was visibly flustered. He reminded Arthur, a bit breathlessly, that Doctor Gorlois had said no sex until she'd checked his next set of ImPACT scores.

"Well, they installed the program on my PC, didn’t they? So let's go boot that shit up. I'll do the test now."

"Arthur, it's past midnight."

"She'll be on call," Arthur said, worming his hands up under Em's T-shirt and shamelessly rubbing his erection against his hip. "Or—you have access to my baseline, don't you? I trust your judgment. And I swear, I am not seeing spots, and the only thing that aches is my balls."

_"Jaysus,_ Arthur, you randy little—get off!" Em rolled away. "Seriously. Your blood pressure has already had more excitement than it should at this stage. Do you need me to go sleep in the other room?"

Arthur held up his hands in defeat, shaking his head. "No, sorry. Don’t go. I'll behave."

Em regarded him warily, eyes drifting towards the tented section of Arthur's shorts. Then he raised an eyebrow, smirked and said, "Well, at least we know you're not going to be one of those head trauma patients who have trouble with sex drive."

Arthur rubbed his crotch sheepishly. "Er, nope."

"All right then. I'll stay, but you have to promise to keep that thing away from me."

"Scout's honour," Arthur said, clambering under the duvet.

They switched off the lights and settled in, and despite what he'd imagined, Arthur had no trouble falling asleep. He woke up several hours later though, panicking until he remembered where he was. Then he remembered something else.

Em was spooned lightly along his back, his left arm trailing over Arthur's hip and down his thigh. Arthur lifted his arm and slowly worked his own shorts down and off. Then he settled back into Em's embrace, gently pressing his arse against Em's crotch. He waited, breath shallow, until he felt Em's hand quicken and clutch at his thigh.

"Arthm?" Em said sleepily. "You've lost your shorts, mate. What're you— _oh._ Oh, that's…"

Arthur ground his arse back against the growing bulge in Em's pants and guided his hand down between his legs. Em hesitated only a moment before pushing Arthur's arm away and taking him in hand.

"You know, you're making me be a very bad nurse," he said grumpily, shifting his hips until Arthur could feel his full length snugged along the cleft of his arse. "You were never in Scouts, were you?"

"Nah," Arthur whispered, smiling into his pillow. "Sorry."


	36. The Naughty Step

Despite what Em claimed, Arthur wasn't trying for Crap Patient of the Year. It was just that he was fucking _bored,_ not to mention recovering from brain injury and arse over tit in love. He wasn't sure which of these conditions was most responsible for his acting out; he only knew that he couldn’t seem to help himself. "Rest" had swiftly become the worst kind of four-letter word.

Wednesday he sat—just sat—on the old recumbent cycle in the guest room while he caught up on match footage. He thought is was a creative solution, given that the sofa bed was covered in laundry and all the boxes of crap he'd been sent in hospital. But Dagonet kept forgetting to look up and locate his support rather than trying to dribble _through_ the opposition's back line, and Arthur wound up pedalling like mad and shouting at the screen. Em banished him to the living room, where there was no fitness equipment. Or so he thought.

By dinner, Em had confiscated Arthur's DualShock 3 and all the other remote controls he could find, even the ones that did nothing more exciting than work the shades. He wolfed down his portion of the takeaway, commandeered Arthur's office, and was still poring over his conference notes when Arthur went to bed.

Thursday, after being told off for trying to lug the fitness and spare gaming equipment out of the guest room—he wasn't going to use it; he just wanted it out of the way so he could take some measurements, because clearly Em was going to need his own office—Arthur dutifully settled on the sofa with the latest batch of fan mail.

Barring paper cuts, this should have been a staid enough affair, but either Hector's pre-screening wasn't what it used to be, or he was trying to show Arthur that he could be open-minded. There was an oversized card from the Tuck Club, replete with naughty puns and pink glitter, as well as a handwritten note from the Dragonlord dads from the cancer ward. They'd included a drawing their daughter had done in which Arthur's head, three times the size of his body, bobbed next to hers like a blond-wigged balloon.

So, of _course,_ what did Arthur do but run to show Em, laughing and banging down his office door, completely forgetting that Em had closed it so he could Skype the Americans in peace.

Later, he tried apologising with an impromptu neck rub, but it turned into more of an impromptu molestation, Em's scent going straight to Arthur's hindbrain until he wasn't so much kissing his neck as rubbing his face against it and making lewd suggestions. Em sort of melted at first, his breath growing ragged. But when Arthur tried to poke his halfway-chubby cock between Em's thighs, he found himself back on the naughty step, being pushed away and told to, "Jaysusfucking… Arthur, _no._ Go rest. Seriously. _Rest."_

* * *

By Friday afternoon, he was bouncing off the walls. He was also getting the feeling that Em wanted to strap him to a chair and stuff a gag in his mouth, and not for kinky funtimes.

"It's not me, it's them," Arthur protested, pointing towards his feet when Em caught him playing keepy-uppy with a pair of wadded-up socks. For the second time.

He was supposed to be doing some stupid photo recall test on the computer, but all the images of people going places and _doing_ things made him itch to be back on a patch of grass. Hell, even the pensioners in the café and the City drones waiting for the train looked to be having a more exciting time of it.

"Born to run free, Em. And they could give a fuck what colour tie the second man from the left was wearing."

Em skipped the eye-rolling and arch commentary and went straight for the _look,_ the one that shut Gwaine up and made even the likes of Percy stow his protests and clamber meekly onto the treatment table. It was all calm face and laser eyes—not angry, but sharp, and so fucking unimpressed.

It made Arthur go hot with shame (doubly so now that he knew Em had learnt that look from Hunith, because it made him feel like he was displeasing mother and son in one go). He volleyed the socks against the wall, let them drop and turned back to the computer. By the time he was seated, both Em and the sock wad were gone.

Arthur scowled and prodded the keyboard, waking the monitor. "What colour tie is the man second from left wearing?" it demanded in pert black and white, as if in the last quarter of an hour Arthur had developed a burning interest. He tried to recall the wall of stone-faced commuters from the last photo.

_Lucky bastards,_ he thought. He bet no one ever told them to rest. _Was it blue? Red? No, wait—_

"Oi!" Arthur said, pointing at the screen. "He wasn't wearing a bloody tie, you sly fucking wankers!"

He heard Em laugh from somewhere out in the hall. He told himself it was a laugh of genuine amusement, not homicidal mania, and felt a bit more cheerful.

That night though, after yet another of Arthur's clumsy attempts at seduction—or, failing that, to retrieve his racing wheel, because a man with Em's ignorance about cars should not be allowed to lap him at Silverstone, even virtually—Em finally snapped. He pushed Arthur flat on his back on the sofa, straddled him, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"For fuck's sake, Arthur, _stop,"_ he said, using the wheel as a shield between them. He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flared. He was wearing one of Arthur's old CFC hoodies, the thick kind no one actually trained in because they felt like lead when they got wet. It bulked out his lean torso, made him look like an angry tomato.

Arthur lifted his hands away in exaggerated surrender.

"Look, I'll be _damned_ if you blow a fuse on my watch. I'd threaten to shackle you to the bed, but I think you'd enjoy it too much. Am I right?"

Arthur snorted, but he couldn’t really deny it, not with Em sitting on the evidence. He nodded, mumbling his assent against Em's palm and trying to ignore the urge to lick. Or bite.

"Bossy can be fun, but all this nagging? Not so much. Not for me." Em slid his hand over, gripping Arthur's jaw. "This isn't a power game. It's your health, Arthur—your fucking _life,_ and I need you to take it seriously."

"What, and you think I don't?" Arthur shot back. Then he noticed the sheen of sweat on Em's forehead, the tight furl between his brows. He remembered the way Em had clung to him in the bath the night they'd come home from hospital, his fear a tangible thing, and felt like an utter dick. "I… Shite, Em, I know. Sorry, it's just..."

He reached up, thinking to pull Em down for a hug, but there was an unyielding arm and a hunk of black plastic in the way. Em's whole frame was taut, his eyes stormy. Arthur let his hands fall by his sides.

"I've never been good with injuries, alright? But at least with all the others… An ankle sprain I can deal with; I can flex my foot and gauge where I'm at. With this, I feel _fine,_ Em. Yet here I am sat on my arse, useless as tits on a bull."

Em frowned, but Arthur felt some of the tension leave his limbs. He sat up, letting go of the racing wheel as well as Arthur's jaw, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Arthur set the wheel aside, on the floor. After a brief hesitation, he ventured a hand on Em's thigh. The nylon track pants were slick and cool until they caught the heat of his palm. All of the pent-up frustration of the past few days came surging up.

"And _you,"_ he blurted, squeezing Em's leg. "You're..."

"What?" Em said, still frowning.

"You're here twenty-four-seven, is what! Being all brilliant and productive, and I know it's not… Just, I'm bored and you're right _here,_ yeah?" Arthur gave Em's thigh a shake. "I'm not just one of your players, Em. It'd be easier right now if I were, but I can't turn off the other stuff, not here. Not when the bed smells of you—not just your pillow, the whole goddamn thing—and half the time you're wearing my clothes. But all you do is push me away, tell me to go bloody _rest._ I don't want to rest. I want—" 

Em closed his eyes, and Arthur froze, cursing under his breath. He was doing it again, acting like a spoilt brat. Any moment now he was going to be on the receiving end of another one of those cutting looks, and he wasn't sure he could handle it. He started to push at Em, needing to get away.

Then Em reopened his eyes, and they weren't unimpressed. They were warm and clear. So very blue.

"Poor wee Arthur," he said, mouth curling into a smirk. He leaned down and cupped Arthur's face in both hands, fingers curling to press beside his ears and rub down along his jawline.

Arthur glared. Or tried to, anyways; it was hard when Em's fingers were draining all the tension from his face.

"This really is hell for you, isn't it, having to put your feet up."

Arthur redoubled his efforts, which only made Em's smirk grow.

"Christ, do you know how many people would love to be told, 'Sorry, no, mustn't go in to work today. You must stay in, watch telly, play video games and let yourself be waited on hand and foot'? Granted, you have a mint job, but—"

" 'S the mintiest," Arthur mumbled, eyes drifting closed as Em moved on to his temples and that magic spot between his eyebrows. He wondered if he could convince Coach that face massage should be a routine part of their training regimen.

"Yeah, well, at the moment all you're missing is running circles round a half-frozen pitch in front of a bunch of journos."

"Half-frozen pitches aren't going to run round themselves. Someone's got to do it."

Em chuckled. "I think Leon and the lads have it covered this time, but I'll tell you what, number nine." He paused in his ministrations, thumbs on either side of Arthur's nose.

"What?"

"If Gorlois likes your scans tomorrow, she says there's no reason you can't attend the match, and Tally agreed you can start back at Knightswood on Monday. Not full training, mind, but—"

Arthur let out a whoop of joy. He opened his eyes, trying to sit up and pull Em in for a hug. The sitting up part didn't work out at all. He wound up flat on his back again, but this time with a laughing Em sprawled on top. He decided that this was an acceptable outcome—better even—and grabbed Em's ears.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Emrys. And you're going to bloody well let me."

"And why's that?"

Arthur wiggled his hips. "I can feel you, you fucking tease. You totally want me right now."

"Mmm." Grinning, Em let Arthur draw his head down into a kiss. But after too short a time he was shifting his mouth away, putting his lips to Arthur's ear.

"That's my mobile, genius," he whispered. "But I promise you, when I have it on good authority that you're fit to go a full ninety, I'm going to slap a cock ring on you and fuck you so slow..."

Arthur swallowed, simultaneously embarrassed and aroused, not daring to move an inch lest Em stop.

"Hmm. You'd like that, wouldn’t you, being fucked for ages? Making up for lost time?"

"Ngh." Arthur squirmed, stuck on the thought of spending hours, a whole night, just _full._

"Course, there's no way I could last long enough to satisfy a greedy boy like you, but that's alright. I'll finish you off with that chubby red dildo you're so fond of, yeah? Maybe I'll come all over it, make you watch while I do. Then slide it in your arse and keep. On. Fucking."

Em gave a thrust on his last words, an undulating roll of his hips that pressed his mobile—and yes, Arthur must still be a bit brain-damaged, because Em's cock at its finest still didn't have hard _edges_ —into Arthur's hip.

He kissed Arthur one last time—inexplicably, he was giggling—and rolled off, dropping to the floor in a crouch before standing. It took Arthur a moment to catch up.

"You..." Arthur spluttered, struggling up onto his elbows. He felt like all his blood was either in his groin or his face, and he wasn't sure the parts in between were still joined up properly. "You can't just joke about—"

Em raised an eyebrow. "Ooh, I'd say we're just starting to get even. Do you know how hard it is saying no to you, when half the time you're wandering around like a lonely stud horse? All restless and handsy and… when was the last time you bothered with pants? You've been driving me _insane."_

"But..." Arthur frowned up at Em, trying to think how to explain that there was no need for him to be frustrated, because he was more than happy to put whatever bits of him that were working to good use.

"I'll ring for takeout." Em pulled his mobile out of his pocket, held it up and waggled it, giving Arthur a significant look. "In the meantime, I'd suggest a cold shower."

Arthur flopped back on the sofa with a groan. "You… you're _actually_ evil."

Em sauntered off towards the kitchen. "Already got the pitchfork, mate," he called back over his shoulder. "But I've a feeling you're going to earn me my pointy tail."


	37. VIP Treatment

On Saturday, for the first time in his life, Arthur was excited to go to hospital. He was also nervous, but he kept that to himself (and if he searched out Em's hand in the lift and gave it a squeeze, he chalked that up to excitement as well). In the end, Doctor Gorlois gave him the go-ahead, but warned him he might find the crowd noise disorienting.

"No worries," Em said. "We plan to break him in gently. He'll be up in the boxes."

"I will?" This was the first Arthur had heard of it. He assumed he'd be sitting down in the players' seats, showing the supporters (and the shareholders) that Camelot's number nine was on his way to a full recovery.

Em nodded, mouthed, "Later," and shook Doctor Gorlois' hand.

It took Arthur five solid minutes of glaring in the back of the hired car before Em caved.

"Look, this is your first time back at the Citadel since the injury. Like Doctor Gorlois said, the noise may take some getting used to, but also… Just, if it's going to be weird for you, for any reason, wouldn’t you rather deal with that in private?"

"What, is the club worried I'm going to have flashbacks?" Arthur scoffed. "Crawl into Kay's lap and start gibbering for him to hold me every time someone goes up for a header?"

"Arthur—"

He nudged Em's leg with his own. "No, it's fine. I get it. Though, if we're using the family box, I'd be more worried about the noise levels inside than out. Gwen asked if she could host some of her mates from her Roman legion whatsit."

Em glanced away, out the window, and ran a hand through his hair. He'd been doing it all day, ever since his mobile had started ringing at breakfast; by now it was finger-combed into wonky hedgerows. Arthur found them endearing, apart from the fact they seemed to be caused by acute stress.

"Er, actually, _I'll_ be down on the touchline," Em said. "Tally's ordered me back to the mines. You'll be with your father in the Gold Scale Suite."

"Ha bloody—" Arthur stopped when he saw the look on Em's face. "You're serious."

"It came as a request, rather than an order, if that makes a difference."

"He rang _you?"_

Em shook his head vigorously. "Nooo. Not directly. One of his staff. Ever since that press conference they seem to think I'm your PA or something."

Arthur smirked. "Or something, eh?"

Em gave him a dirty look. "Thing is, it's either that or being babysat by Doctor Kilgary in the club bar. Awkward conversation either way, but at least in the suite you'll get a posh spread. Hey!" Breaking into a smile, he leaned over and poked Arthur in the belly. "I bet they'll have those dragon claws. _Yum."_

"That's just prawn cocktail, Em. With a stupid name to boot."

_"Just_ prawn cocktail." Em recoiled. "Nothing to do with prawns is ever stupid, Arthur. Just because you were born into a family—wait, no, a whole fucking _class_ —rolling in posh seafood doesn’t mean you get to spoil the dream for the little people."

Arthur raised a stern finger, a retort on the tip of his tongue. Then their gazes locked. Em bit his lip, Arthur snorted, and suddenly they were both shaking with laughter.

By the time the car pulled up to the Citadel's VIP entrance, Arthur's suit was rumpled, his stomach was sore, and his face was a bright cherry red. They'd been laughing for a good quarter of an hour—mostly over nothing, each giddily egging the other on—and it felt marvellous. Even the driver was smiling as he held the door.

"Nice to see you in good humour," he said. "The missus was that worried, you know, but I told her you were a fighter. Be back in no time."

"Cheers," Arthur said, stepping aside so Em could clamber out of the car. "Of course, Coach and the doctors have the final say, but I'm certainly eager to be back in action. Don't want to lose my spot." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Em lift a saucy eyebrow. He covered the impending giggle with a cough.

"No worries there, son," the driver said with feeling. "They'd be mad not to start you as soon as you're fit. Anyone with eyes can see there's a great big hole up the pitch that wants filling."

"Too right," Em said, slinging his bag across his chest. "Come to think of it, my missus was just saying as much last night."

With that, he turned and strode off towards the entrance, leaving Arthur sputtering in his wake.

* * *

The Gold Scale Suite was serviced by a private lift, and a dour hulk of a man was already waiting for Arthur in the VIP reception area, clutching a glittering swipe card.

Em lifted a hand in farewell. "See you later, mate. Try not to choke on the diamond-crusted canapés."

"Piss off, Emrys," Arthur grumbled, pulling him in for a hug. It was a chaste, one-armed affair, more of a back pat really, but Arthur was hyper-aware of every place they were touching. It was a struggle not to curl his face inward. He had the urge to bury his nose in Em's neck and take a great whiff.

"This way, sir," the man said when Arthur broke away. He ushered Arthur into and out of the lift and insisted on shadowing him to the door of the suite, as if delivering a prisoner.

_Which is pretty fucking apt,_ Arthur thought, dreading two-plus hours of mingling with the inevitable suits—board members, business partners, potential sponsors—his father would be entertaining. Arthur had learned at an early age that, despite the perfect view, no one who used the Gold Scale Suite was there just to watch the football. He'd much preferred sitting down in the stands, or along the touchline, where people had their priorities straight.

Glancing down, Arthur sighed. He made a half-hearted attempt to straighten his tie and stepped inside the suite.

He looked around, confused. The room appeared empty, save for the elegant hostess behind the bar who greeted him brightly. He followed the tilt of her head and finally spotted his father, sunk into one of the leather bucket seats out on the viewing deck.

Uther swivelled partway round and raised a hand in greeting, but made no move to stand. He was on his mobile.

"Champagne, sir?" the hostess said.

"How much have you got?" Arthur muttered. He was starting to get a bad feeling about this. Though maybe he was being too cynical. Maybe, as Em had suggested, his father was simply trying to reach out, engage in his own ostentatious version of father-son bonding.

Seeing the woman's bemused expression, he added, "Sorry, no. I'll be fine with water."

Arthur skirted the banquet table, wended his way through the scattered lounge furniture, and climbed the few steps to the glassed-in viewing deck. His father gave him the once-over as he approached.

"Son, you look terrible," he said mildly, slipping his mobile back into his suit jacket. "What did that woman do to you?"

"Who, oh—Doctor Gorlois? Nothing. She says everything looks good. I'm cleared to start back on Monday."

"Excellent news." Uther smiled, then flicked his eyes over Arthur's front. "Still, you look as if you've gone three rounds with a tuppenny whore. I hope you didn't allow yourself to be photographed like that."

Arthur stared, thinking, _So much for father-son bonding._

"And here I thought you'd be happy just to see me up and about, remembering my left from my right. One, no one saw me—no one who matters to you, anyway—and two, Emmett and I were just…" Arthur saw his father's eyes go wide, saw the ugly red flush seeping upward from his collar. "… having a laugh," he finished, smirking.

"A laugh." Uther looked sceptical.

"Yes, a laugh. Bit of a giggle. Known to happen amongst friends. Last I checked, it's perfectly legal." Arthur flopped down into the nearest seat and reached for the bottle of water stashed in the attached drinks caddy. "You know, we don't just run around sucking one another off in back alleys. Em happens to be one of my best mates. Even if we weren't sleeping together, even if he didn't work here… He's a part of my life, Father; he's not going away. I thought you'd get that by now."

Uther cleared his throat. "Actually, Arthur, I—"

There was a loud buzzing. Uther cursed, fumbling for his mobile. He frowned at whatever he saw on the screen.

"Idiots," he murmured. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" Not waiting for a response, he struggled up out of the chair and stalked down into the dining area, leaving Arthur to wrench the cap off his water and stare moodily out over the pitch.

The warm-up was just winding down, lads from both teams jogging over to have one last shot on their respective goalkeepers. Arthur looked for Em and spotted his dark head near the touchline. He was on one knee, bent over some lucky bastard who was having his hamstrings thoroughly stretched. By his kit, said lucky bastard looked to be one of the refs.

_Only you, Emrys,_ Arthur thought fondly, taking a swig of water. He knew Em had probably been the one to offer, too.

When his father didn't immediately return, Arthur sat back, swivelling from side to side and soaking up what atmosphere managed to filter through the acoustic glass. It was a patchy crowd so far, but boisterous. Arthur trusted the stands would fill in by kick-off. There were still plenty of people happy to buy into the magic of the FA Cup, especially since CFC's display at Western Isles. Camelot and Cumbria had nowhere near the same rivalry going, but Gwaine had done his bit by starting a colourful exchange with some of his former teammates on Twitter.

The hostess came and went, offering a variety of fiddly theme-named starters—including the dragon claws—all of which Arthur declined.

"Actually, I'll have half a pint of lager," he said on her third pass. "And I don't suppose you have any smoky bacon crisps?"

Her professional smile slipped into something more genuine. "I'll see what I can find, sir."

She returned a few minutes later with his drink and three packets of crisps, warning, "You didn’t get these from me. And don't ask for pasties next or Chef will cry."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Arthur said, tearing into the first packet with relish. If he was going to be ignored as well as side-lined, then he was going to damn well try and enjoy himself, act like one of the punters.

It was no good though. It was too hard to ignore the little voice that wondered what the fuck he was doing mucking about with lager and crisps when he should be in the dressing room, having that last piss, checking his laces, letting the music and banter wash over him until Leon called for quiet.

Arthur set aside the crisps and pulled out his mobile. He'd sent the lads obscene amounts of texts over the last couple of days, but he couldn’t resist one more, wishing them luck. By now they'd all know he was here, and exactly where he was sitting. _I expect bags of goals u shite bastards,_ he added. _Could be back at flat watching corrie repeats & having my arse bronzed_

He sent a separate text to Em, sniggering as he typed, _I saw that u shameless thigh h00r no prawns 4u_

Uther returned as Arthur hit the send key, sinking down into his seat with a muted sigh. He glanced—rather longingly, Arthur thought—at the crisps, but made no comment. Instead, he took up the menu card the hostess had left. Arthur could tell by his eyes that he wasn't actually reading it.

"Apologies," Uther said. "I was meant to be down in London, for the Vortigern's annual meeting. My proxy..." He trailed off, glancing over at Arthur. "Never mind. What'll you have? The quail is invariably dry, but the pasta is made in house. I've heard—"

"Why _aren't_ you in London then?" Arthur cut in. "I may have lost a few brain cells, but I'm sure I’d remember asking for a private dressing down by the chairman."

"Arthur, stop. I didn't ask you here to argue. We need—"

Uther paused as the hostess reappeared. In a heartbeat, he went from snippy to oozing the kind of charm that told Arthur he'd noticed her legs.

Arthur swallowed his irritation and hunched over his mobile, skimming through the various replies (all gloriously rude) that had starting popping up from the squad. When asked for his order, he pointed to the menu item that billed itself as a deconstructed ham and cheese.

"No offence, but that's basically a ploughman's, yeah?"

She kept a remarkably straight face as she said, "I've always thought so, sir."

"I'll have that then," Arthur said, ignoring his father's admonitory look. "And the soup. Cheers."

He went back to his texts while his father clarified something about his order. There were two from Em. The first was a sad face, followed by, _U know I'd do the same 4u grompet_

The second read, _Btw gwaine wanted 2 know if that was ur lame attempt 2 come out. Applied wedgie. Bad physio_

Even in jest, the words made something bright and jittery snake up his spine. Arthur burst out laughing.

"Sorry, Father, you were saying?" Arthur glanced over, then did a double-take. Uther's face had gone slack, his eyes distant. The hostess had gone. "Father, are you all right?"

He started, eyes refocusing on Arthur.

"Your mother was a great one for laughing," he said. "All in and sod the vicar. Just like you. I used to tell her she could out-bray a donkey, but she knew I adored it."

Then, as if he'd merely remarked on the weather, Uther pushed himself up once more and stepped towards the glass, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Son, we need to talk about this business with Emrys."

Arthur sat, stunned, as Uther began to speak. He was saying something about PR and media enquiries, but all Arthur could think about was that, after a lifetime of silence, his father had mentioned his mother for the second time in as many weeks. Perhaps the outburst in hospital wasn't so unusual, given the circumstances, but Arthur hadn’t been counting on a repeat. Certainly not on one that was so… intimate. He remembered the old childhood terror, that his father secretly hated him for surviving.

"… given Mister Emrys's situation, so I think it best we get you on record as soon as possible. We'll have your story held until it's needed. Mordred will—"

"Mordred!" Arthur sat up, adrenaline spiking. Em's surname had filtered through his brain fog; the mention of Mordred dispelled it completely. "I thought he'd been dealt with."

His father looked back over his shoulder, brow furrowed. "Which is why, as I said, he's the perfect choice. I'm his only ticket back to anything that resembles a career in journalism, and he knows it. He wouldn't dare cross me. And there's a certain justice to it, don't you think?"

Arthur's confusion must have been plain to see, for Uther tsked and returned to his seat.

"Haven't you been listening? With all the recent interest in Mister Emrys, it's only a matter of time before his proclivities come to light. He lives in a known gay quarter, for christ's sake. He associates with members of that sign-waving mob who keep bringing their personal politics into my stadium, and he once worked in a _leather bar."_

"Yeah, pulling pints! When he was at uni, and how the hell do you—oh my god, you had him looked into, didn’t you?" Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, how surreal his day had become. Down below, the mascots were trotting off the pitch and the teams were milling about, waiting for the coin toss. Leon was standing opposite the Cumbrian captain, both their heads tilted towards the referee.

Uther chuckled. "Of course I did. I did the same with Belcourt, as soon as I realised Morgana wasn't just toying with the poor sod."

Arthur swallowed a hysterical laugh. He wondered if Uther knew that they'd met at a fetish club. He wondered, too, if his father knew that Morgana had been part of that initial sign-waving mob.

"So this is… what?" he said. He drained the last of his lager. "Approval? You showing you care? Mighty Big Brother way to do it, if you ask me."

"Arthur, wake up," Uther said, slapping a hand on his armrest. "Regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, I accept that you and Mister Emrys are close, much closer than I’d expected. I also accept that he seems to have your best interests at heart, but you're not the only one involved here.

"He was seen at my side during that press conference. I am _on record_ telling a pack of tabloid jackals that his mother is a family friend. I had to know exactly who I was dealing with. And what I've been trying to explain is that I think we can turn this whole debacle to your—and Camelot's—advantage. Provided, of course, that the two of you are willing to compromise."

"Of course," Arthur echoed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache blooming and decided not to ask if "this whole debacle" was a reference to his love life or the recent injury. "And this compromise, it involves Mordred?"

"In part."

Arthur heard a faint, shrill sound—the whistle—and a muted roar rose up from the stands. The match had begun.

"Alright, Father. I can't promise anything, but I'm listening."

* * *

The battle on the pitch ended 1-nil to Camelot. It would have been 2-nil if Dagonet hadn't fluffed a tap-in, but no one was seriously injured, no one was sent off, and they were through to the next round of the FA Cup. All in all, a good result.

The result of the battle up in the executive suite, however, was less clear. On the one hand, a lot of things that had needed saying had been said—including apologies over Boxing Day—and Arthur felt like he was finally seeing his father with clear eyes. On the other, he also saw exactly what he was up against.

Uther might have accepted that Viv was never going to be his daughter-in-law, and that Arthur's feelings for Em went far beyond casual; he might even be willing to court the pink pound. But he could not wrap his head round the fact that Arthur didn't want to keep all these things _private_ —that he wanted, as Uther claimed, to _flaunt_ them.

"No one's _flaunting_ anything," Arthur had explained, as calmly as he could, while shredding a slice of ham (Arthur's meal took the brunt of his frustrations, winding up more mangled than eaten). "And of course we want a private life, but not at the expense of a constant spew of lies—because that's what you're really talking about, isn’t it? Misdirection? Playing coy with the press? It'll backfire eventually. And in the meantime, it's a rubbish way to live."

This was the main thing that Uther didn’t seem to grasp: that the worst part wasn't the lying itself, but the assumption that it was preferable, necessary even, given Arthur's career.

Arthur had spent long enough doing that very number on himself. Now that he'd grown a pair, he was determined to stand up, be counted—as living, breathing proof that schoolboys didn’t have to hide or walk away from sport just because they fancied Becks over Posh—and get on with his life.

He had a starting spot to win back, trophies to chase, and a team who needed him. He had living arrangements to sort out—because he had no intention of sleeping alone more than was absolutely necessary—not to mention a summer holiday to plan. He'd be damned if Em didn’t get his trip to Florida.

In the end, though, a compromise was reached. Arthur agreed to go along with Uther's PR schemes, provided Em was on board. He agreed to do the interview with Mordred, but otherwise focus on his football. He agreed not do anything "drastic," like claw his way onto the cover of _Gay Times_ or appear on _Match of the Day 2_ wearing leather chaps and a rainbow cape.

He considered the latter a small price to pay for Uther agreeing to be a little _more_ drastic in embracing reforms at the club, from opening talks with the supporters (sign-wavers and all) to visibly directing more resources towards combatting racism and homophobia.

They parted amicably, with clasped hands and tentative plans for Uther to come over the following weekend. To meet Em. Properly.

Arthur would have called it a draw, then, save for the fact that he was already planning on taking fantastic liberties with his end of the bargain.

It was the only way. He saw that now. No matter how much his father loved him, he was never going to want this for him. It had been the same with playing football professionally. Now, as then, Arthur was just going to have to ignore his father's best intentions and do what felt right.

* * *

Arthur outlined his plans to Em that night, sprawled side by side in bed. It wasn't the best timing, seeing as they were both exhausted. They bickered a little, got distracted a lot, and fell asleep before deciding whether they'd be better off running away to LA to be porn stars or retiring to Ealdor to farm organic leeks. They'd hit a snag on Arthur's admission that he didn’t know the first thing about farming and Em's assertion that he would personally hamstring anyone who told Arthur to wax his chest, fix his teeth, or get his dick clipped.

In the morning, though, things were much clearer. Arthur woke to a pair of sleep-gummed blue eyes watching him from the adjoining pillow.

"I don't want you to be a farmer," Em announced. "I like the thought of you in wellies, but you'd be fucking wasted amongst the leeks."

"Well, I—" Arthur yawned. "Honestly, I don't much like the thought of you being a porn star. Except in private, like." He stretched out a foot until it was resting against Em's calf.

Em's lips twitched, but he nodded solemnly. "That's settled then. Your way—your _insane,_ if delightfully perverse way—it is."

"Mmm." Arthur yawned again, prodded Em's leg. "So, ready to make history?"

"No, I'm ready to go do some dumb shite for the sake of love, and maybe a little because it needs doing, and hope history looks on it kindly."

Em surged forward for a fierce, sour-mouthed kiss. Then, before Arthur could start anything more, he rolled away, yanking down the duvet.

"Now shift your arse. You have a playdate with Kay in an hour, and I promised Freya I'd show my face round the flat. Otherwise she's threatened to rent my room to Helen."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Arthur wondered aloud, but Em had already slipped into the en suite.


	38. Press Kit

Monday, Arthur practically skipped into Knightswood, he was that grateful to be back. He got a warm welcome from the staff, complete with a bone-crunching hug from Catrina and a brusque, "It's about time, Pendragon" from Coach. The squad welcomed him back in their own fashion, namely a tower of muddy boots stacked in front of his locker.

"For the new boy," the sign read.

Arthur grimaced, having flashbacks to when he really had been the new boy, and rounded up the trainees. With their help, plus noble sacrifices from Elena and the grounds staff, Arthur had the boots back to their owners by the end of the day, spotless and newly cushioned with sanitary napkins doused in fox piss. The sour faces and squeals of manly horror were a pleasure to behold, and more than made up for a boring day of light cardio and callisthenics. Kay, being Kay, actually put his on and stomped around, declaring they felt like gel inserts.

When half the squad started chucking the boots at Arthur, however, things got less fun. One thumped him right between the shoulder blades. He threw his arms up over his head with a startled shout, ducking down behind a laundry cart.

"Oi! Not the head, you arsewankers!" Percy bellowed. "You break the Wart again, you answer to me."

Arthur drew a shaky breath and stood. "Aw, Perce, I didn't know you cared," he said, keeping his tone light, hoping no one noticed how rattled he'd got. The last thing he needed was for the lads to think he'd become gun-shy in the air.

Percy shrugged. "Good defence means sod-all without a good offence," he said. "You're good."

Arthur suffered the rest of the week's teasing with the footballing version of good grace—namely, a cheery smile coupled with rude hand gestures—and kept reminding everyone that he wouldn't be under medical ban from actual contact play forever.

As agreed, he kept a low media profile. He recorded a short video for the club website, publicly accepting Agravaine's apology and thanking all the supporters and medical staff. Word went out that he wished to put the freak incident behind him and focus 100% on his recovery.

Em, meanwhile, was enjoying—or rather, enduring—a level of media exposure rarely afforded backroom staff. It was partly organic, as a result of the coverage of Arthur's injury. (Camelot had discovered what Arthur already knew, that Em was a bit eye-catching on a normal day, but in a crisis, he _shone.)_ But Uther, being of the same mind as Percy regarding defence and offence, was also intent on helping things along, or at least directing the interest into specific channels.

To this end he had assigned Em a member of the PR team, a cheerful, efficient young man called George who, by all accounts, was cheerfully, efficiently driving Em up the wall. Em had taken to saying his name with a little put-upon snarl that never failed to make Arthur's lips twitch.

From the couple of interactions he'd witnessed, Arthur could see that poor George meant well; it was just that he was clueless when it came to respecting Em's personal boundaries, and doubly clueless when it came to his sense of humour.

("Lunch," Em had replied when George asked him to name the most satisfying part of his workday. George hadn’t batted an eyelash. He'd made a note in his PDA and informed Em he might want to work on a "more engaging" answer for the club newsletter.)

The newsletter in question came out on Fridays. It had a match preview, club news and a featured staff or player profile—in this case, Em's. Tradition dictated the victim of the week receive a slice of cake, often forcefully applied to the face, and a thorough ribbing.

Arthur joined in on the teasing, but privately he thought George had done a decent job. Em came off as personable and savvy, if a bit of an anorak. Plus the photo was _ridiculous_ (they'd managed to backlight his ears) and therefore a keeper.

As soon as he got home Friday afternoon—feeling a bit bereft, as Will was in town and Em had gone back to his own flat—Arthur printed out a copy from the club website and stuck it on the fridge, alongside the cancer girl's drawing. Em had insisted the balloon head was a perfect likeness.

* * *

Em spotted the photo the next evening as he helped Leon in with the takeaway. They were having a more modest version of date night, partly for Arthur's sake, but mostly because Camelot had been held to a scoreless draw earlier and the city was floundering under a freak snowstorm, meaning no one was in the mood to go out.

Em sighed dramatically. "Ah, my fifteen minutes of fame."

"Not so, darling. There's more." Morgana reached into her whale of a bag, pulled out a folded newspaper, and slapped it on the worktop. "Late edition of the _Echo._ I take it you boys haven't seen?"

Arthur and Em exchanged a wary look before crowding round.

"Oh that's..." Arthur breathed.

Morgana smirked. "If the plan is to moisten local knickers, I'd say that Georgie's earning his keep."

Em made a sort of gurgling sound and covered his face.

Arthur snagged the paper and pulled it closer. A good third of the page was covered in a photo montage of Em.

"MAGIC HANDS," the headline read, then, in smaller font, "Is This Dishy Physio Secret to CFC Success, Pendragon Recovery?"

And okay, yes, the headline was cringe-worthy, but the pictures were decent, not to mention a bit _gorgeous._ They showed Em in all his workaday glory, grinning away on the touchline or folded gracefully over an anonymous leg on the pitch, all long fingers and eyelashes and laser-focused concern. There was one of him looking sleek and serious in a suit and club tie, presumably from the infamous press conference, as well as one from outside hospital, face scruffy and fierce as he walked alongside the wheelchair they'd made Arthur leave in.

Arthur was still staring when the paper was plucked from his grasp.

"Dishy?" Em groaned. "What the ever-loving fuck? What does that have to do with—"

"Hot," Arthur said. He tore his eyes from the various 2D Ems and settled them on the live 3D version beside him. "I would have used 'hot.' Or 'really fucking hot.' Oh my god, Em, you're like Lance, mate—like, actually photogenic and shit. You do know this, yes?"

Em gave Arthur a look that was all wonky eyebrows and disdain, muttering, "Persistent brain damage." Then he turned to Morgana, holding the paper out in front of him. "Do I actually want to know what it says?"

She tilted her head, smiling.

"Actually, it's quite sweet. Sophia—that minx who's always hanging round Knightswood—did the copy. Whatever else you want to say about her, she does her research. There's some lovely quotes from the players and staff in between the gushing over your 'raven locks' and 'azure eyes.' "

Arthur sniggered at the look of horror on Em's face.

"Ah, stop winding him up." Leon looked up from where he was unpacking sushi trays from the carrier bags. "It's harmless, mate. Just a gimmick, that, writing like a schoolgirl with a crush."

"I don't know," Morgana said. "I think she's realised that physios are the new ticket. More than half a brain, good with their hands, access to players… plus they save lives!"

"I didn't save... I was just doing my _job,"_ Em protested.

Leon glared at Morgana, then shook his head. "Hey, Wart, you want to eat here or in the dining room?"

"Here's fine, but what—" Arthur tried grabbing the paper back, but Em parried his hand with a sharp elbow, retreating to the breakfast island. Arthur crowded in behind, intent on reading over his shoulder, but after a quick scan Em shut the paper and, face flaming, pushed it onto the floor.

"Right. That is... Not gonna read that. Leon, you want to help me fetch a couple more stools? I'm fucking famished."

Leon followed Em towards the guest room, leaving Arthur to retrieve the paper and smooth it back onto the counter. He'd only got through the first couple of paragraphs—awkward and treacly, but not untrue—when he heard Morgana chuckle. He looked up to find her watching him intently.

"He has no idea, does he?"

"What?"

Morgana rolled her eyes. "Never mind. I'd hide that, by the way, if I were you."

* * *

Later, in bed, Arthur threaded his fingers through Em's as they lay spooned together, waiting for the sheets to warm. He'd been thinking, puzzling it out all through the banter at dinner and the silence afterwards, after Leon and Morgana had left and Em had retreated to the bathroom for a solo soak.

He brought their combined knuckles to his lips for a kiss. "You are, you know."

" 'M what?"

"Dishy. Clever. A bit of a hero." Arthur held on when he felt Em tense. "No, listen. I get that you're embarrassed. You're used to being in the background, so it's weird for you having strangers up in your business, talking—well, gushing—like that, yeah? But." He released Em's hand and rolled over.

"I can't blame her, Em. Nor George. Because that's how I see you, too."

"Shut up," Em whispered, but there wasn't much protest in it.

"No," Arthur said. The bedroom was pitch-dark, but Em's toothpaste breath gave him away. Arthur reached up and caught hold of an ear, using it to guide their faces until they were practically kissing, their noses mashed side by side.

"If we're going to be together, then you're going to have to learn to take compliments. Big ones. _Massive."_

He felt Em's lips scrunch and nostrils flare—his stubborn expression—and could well imagine the accompanying wrinkled forehead. He pressed forward, stroking the downy patch behind Em's ear and licking at his mulish lips until they gave in to a proper kiss.

"You're worried they won’t take you seriously, is that it?" he murmured. "The lads. The other staff. Those posh Yankee docs?"

Em made a small sound, noncommittal, nothing much more than a sleepy-sounding huff, but he didn’t deny it, and he didn’t pull away.

Arthur slid his hand down to Em's shoulder. "One," he said, "doubt they lift their opinions direct from the _Camelot Echo._ Two, so what if they do? It's no crime being noticed."

"Yeah, but… Look, I know what I said, what we agreed, and I'm not taking that back, but I'd much prefer being noticed for what I _do_ than what I look like. Or who I'm with."

"Did you even read the article?" Arthur shook Em's shoulder. "No, you didn't. The entire league—the entire sport—is bursting with fit blokes. Endless supply of eye candy, if that's all you're after, but do you know what really sells front pages?"

"Whatever your father and bloody _George_ want, apparently," Em retorted.

"Oh, come off it. They're just enabling at this point. People like _drama,_ Em. We all know you're brilliant at your job, but most of it's day to day stuff, yeah? Ordinary stuff the punters don’t get to see." Arthur paused, pressing their foreheads together.

"So when there's a terrific head-walloping and a heart-warming recovery tale, and you happen to be in the midst of it all—being, admittedly _extremely_ easy on the eye—can you really blame them for taking an interest?"

"But I'm not..." Em began, his voice barely there. "They'll think..."

Suddenly firm hands were pushing Arthur away—wait, no, not _away,_ just rolling him over, urging him back onto his right side. His protest died in his throat as he felt Em surge in behind him, moulding himself along Arthur's back.

"Just when did you get so fucking wise?" Em said, his words a warm gust across the nape of Arthur's neck. "Did Doc Gorlois give you an upgrade? Transplant?"

Arthur shivered, laughing, and fumbled for Em's hand. "I have _always_ been wise, Emrys. It's just that you've been blinded by my stunning good looks, which makes you as bad as the journos you're moaning about."

"No, no. See, you're proving my point. They—" Em broke off, yawning. "Um, what'm I saying?"

"That Arthur knows best. And that when it comes to objectification, you can dish it out but you can't take it."

"Oh, hush your fat head," Em groused, nuzzling into Arthur's neck. "And go to _sleep._ Your father is going to be here in less than eighteen hours."

Arthur smirked, resisting the urge to have the last word. Instead, he gave Em's hand a brief squeeze and settled in, enjoying the warmth all down his back—save where Em's chronic cold feet were tucked beneath his heels.

He was on the verge of sleep, his thoughts piling up haphazardly and drifting apart, when Em burst out with, "Just promise me that when you do your autobiography, your ghost-writer will be contractually forbidden from using the term 'raven locks.' And my eyes don't dance with anything, got it?"

"Oh, you think you'll be in my autobiography then?"

Em squirmed along his back, surging up to lean over his ear. "From cover to cover, mate. Not even your father and a crack team of pen-wielding monkeys will be able to redact me."

"Monkeys? What happened to the solicitors?"

"You. _Hush._ Or I'm taking your sister up on her offer of a bespoke ball gag."

Arthur pulled Em's hand up to his face, licked the swell at the base of his thumb, and slowly, gently bit down. "Hng."

* * *

Thankfully, Uther arrived with neither monkeys nor solicitors. When Arthur opened the door Sunday evening, his father was accompanied by nothing more threatening than a bottle of chardonnay. His overcoat and shoes were in perfect order, showing no signs of having been out in the wintry soup that was fouling the streets.

Arthur hadn't any expectations that the evening was going to be anything other than a supremely awkward affair, so it was almost a relief when Uther eyed up his bar towel apron, laughed, and said, "What's this? Are you really doing the cooking then?"

Em picked that moment to come sauntering out of the bedroom— _their_ bedroom—adjusting his cuffs. He greeted Uther with a nod and a proffered hand, saying, "I can vouch for his chicken, sir. And the pudding. Beyond that, you're on your own."

"Yes, yes. Well," Uther said, face going horribly blank for a moment before he switched the wine from his right to his left and took Em's hand with the former. He shook Em's hand perfunctorily and held the bottle aloft. "Shall we?"

"We shall," Em said, with the sort of crazy-wide grin that was one part stunning and two parts worrisome.

The real trouble began after drinks and starters, when they moved things from the kitchen to the dining room. Uther sat himself at the head of the table, then frowned as Arthur handed the carving tools to Em.

"Trust me, he's better at this part," Arthur said, as Em made deft work of the carving. "It's all that gross anatomy."

Em smirked. "Chickens are simpler than people though. Tastier too. Not that I've… erm, breast or thigh, Mister Pendragon?"

Arthur nearly fumbled the bowl of sprouts. As it was, he had to look away in order to keep from laughing.

"Thigh, thank you," Uther snapped, going a bit red.

As soon as everyone tucked in, though, he rallied and got down to business, trying to interrogate Em about his social circle and career ambitions. _Trying,_ because Em kept turning Uther's pointed questions into jumping-off points for charming tales about life in Ealdor or enthusiastic anatomical geekery.

Every time Arthur caught his father looking at him out of the corner of his eye with a slightly alarmed (and increasingly exasperated) expression, it was all he could do not to snort water up his nose or spew gobs of half-chewed potato across the gleaming oak.

Then Em started giving Arthur _looks,_ not the scary kind, but the kind that made all his life ambitions pool between his legs and on the surface of his skin. He was sneaky in his delivery, timing them for when Uther was cutting his food or looking at Arthur.

When Uther excused himself to check his messages (a pardon which Em magnanimously granted, the cheeky sod), Arthur shot Em a look of his own and hissed, "Emrys, I am trying to eat here."

Em shrugged. "Well, I'm trying to _enjoy_ my meal. And he took my chair without asking."

"He what? How is that _your—"_

At which point Em sliced off a plump round of breast meat and did something to it with his tongue that reminded Arthur, viscerally, of the time they'd used the dining room table for a whole different kind of feast.

Suffice to say, after that Arthur was near useless. He stopped trying to keep the conversation polite, stopped trying to hide his amusement when it veered off into innuendo or farce. So when Uther turned the conversation to his upcoming interview with Mordred, he didn’t think twice before saying, "Well, where is it, Father?"

"Where is what?"

"My script. I assume you've had one prepared?"

Uther dabbed his upper lip and set his dinner napkin aside. "There is a list of talking points, yes. But I wouldn't—"

"Aha!" Arthur gave Em a significant look. Uther's desire to portray Em as an all-around upstanding bloke and valued member of Camelot's staff was all well and good, but they were under no illusions about his true motive, which was to cover the collective Pendragon arse. Even if that meant rewriting history.

"So, how did we meet, in your version?"

Uther lined up his cutlery on the plate and pushed it aside. "Actually, that is one of the things we still need to iron out. Mister Emrys voiced some objections to the first scenario, so—"

"I am not saying my mother was once in service to your household, Mister Pendragon. I'm sorry. I don’t care if she's fine with it. I'm not."

Uther held out a hand towards Em, palm up, and glared at Arthur.

Arthur smirked. "I hope you're not about to ask why I can’t control him, Father. You know how well that kind of talk goes down with Leon and Morgana."

"I think this calls for pudding," Em announced. "Which you'll be pleased to know, sir, I'm not too butch to fetch. Anyone for a coffee?"

* * *

Over slabs of Gwen's buttermilk spice cake (and Uther's increasingly bewildered expressions at the flying banter), they eventually worked out a story that suited all parties.

They invented a vague connection between Hunith and one of Arthur's nannies and manufactured a series of holiday encounters, including one where Em had saved a young Arthur from drowning in a duck pond.

"What was I doing in a duck pond though?"

"Er, trying to catch the ducks?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"You were hungry? Lonely? I dunno, Arthur. You were _five._ Probably you just saw something shiny."

Uther cleared his throat. "Son, I don't think this level of detail is absolutely necessary."

"No, no, see..." Arthur began, but got distracted by Em licking a bit of icing off his fork.

"Your motivation's not important, genius. The key part is that I _rescued_ you. Think J. D. on _Baywatch._ Except in Wales. And you live."

Arthur snorted. "What, so I swooned over your toothpick arms and rippling… ears? You were all of eight, Emrys."

"Exactly. A wise and mysterious elder. You were entranced. You followed me round—"

"Now you're making me sound like a puppy."

"Hmm. There's this saying, you know, about shoes... fitting."

"Oh, _ha,"_ Arthur said. "You probably hadn’t any friends your own age."

"Ooh, a wise and mysterious _loner._ I like that even better."

Arthur rolled his eyes, herding the last of the cake crumbs on his plate into a little mound. "Anyway, for a time we were inseparable."

"The terror of Aberystwyth! But then we drifted apart." Em sighed, shoulders slumping.

"Grew up."

"Realised we were part of different worlds."

"Completely star-crossed," Arthur agreed, mashing his fork into the crumb pile and sticking it into his mouth like a lolly.

_"And,"_ Uther ground out, leaning forward, "you did not see or communicate with one another again until Mister Emrys came to work for Camelot."

Startled by the interruption, Arthur and Em paused. Arthur removed the fork from his mouth and pointed it at Em's head.

"I recognised him by his raven locks and azure eyes, of course."

"And I him by his vacant expression and general lack of sense," Em retorted. He scooped up his coffee and gazed expectantly at Uther. "And the rest, as they say, is history. That about right?"

Uther waited a moment, glaring from one to the other of them as if assuring himself that they were finished.

"Not quite," he said. He turned to look at Arthur, physically turned in his seat, excluding Em from his line of sight.

"Arthur, it's important that you don't let Mordred ask the questions; you _tell_ him what it is you want him to know. That night at the club, for example, you were there to support a friend who'd recently come out to you. Naturally, for your friend's sake, you did not wish to draw attention to yourself. You see?"

"I have done this whole interview business once or twice, Father, if you'll recall."

"Fine." Uther reached into his dinner jacket, drew out a sheet of folded paper, and placed it on the table. He pushed it towards Arthur with his fingertips. "Just remember that you are not there to discuss your or Mister Emrys's private lives. You are there to… clarify certain events. And you want to go on record saying that you are proud to represent a club that values all of its staff and players equally, regardless of _et cetera, et cetera."_

Arthur sat up, leaned forward, and slapped a hand down on top of the paper. _"Et cetera._ Got it."

He avoided Em's eyes as he folded the paper and tucked it in his breast pocket. His father already suspected they weren't taking this as seriously as they ought; he didn't want to give himself away completely.

Arthur held it together through another round of coffee and a protracted goodbye in the hall, waiting for security to confirm that Uther's car was ready. As soon as the door was shut and locked, however, he sagged against it.

"I think that went rather well," Em called gaily from the kitchen. He'd retreated after helping Uther on with his coat, leaving Arthur to endure the awkward chitchat about the weather and his father's travel schedule.

"Oh, do you now?" Arthur turned and stalked towards the kitchen. "You have a _lot_ to answer for, Emrys. Starting with—" Arthur nearly tripped over his own feet as he rounded the corner.

Em was bent over, head stuck in the fridge. He was wearing only his pants, socks and wristwatch, the rest of his clothing a blue and grey heap on the kitchen floor. As Arthur watched, he straightened and turned round, holding up a small bowl.

"Em, what are you—?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's icing. Gwen knows it's my favourite part, so she made extra."

"Right. Um, that's lovely, but I meant your _clothes._ Why are you—not that I'm complaining—but what...?"

Em looked down at himself, cheeks and chest flushing a lovely shade of pink. "Oh, well. I was planning to eat it off of you, so things might get a little, you know, messy."

Arthur gawped for a moment. Then he began clawing at his collar, kicking off his shoes. "Dear fucking _god_ I hope so. Bed? Shower?"

Em looked up with wicked expression. "I say we reclaim the chair."

* * *

The Queen and Camel had once been a modest local, set in a working-class neighbourhood of Camelot out near the Mercian border. It had seen its fair share of bloody brawls between the two sets of supporters over the years, but when Arthur was ten it had been burnt to the ground in a derby day riot. The original owners had sold up—to one of Uther's subsidiaries—and fled. Now it was an obnoxious gastro pub, where a plate of salad cost more than the average pint and a pair of stony-faced bouncers enforced a strict no-sportswear dress code.

In short, Arthur thought it was a perfect place to meet a wanker like Mordred.

One of said bouncers accompanied Arthur and his party—two of Uther's most buxom staff, posing as shop girls out on the town—to a private room at the back. Arthur waited outside while the women checked Mordred for hidden recording devices and relieved him of his mobile. He felt a bit like James Bond (except for the fact that he had zero interest in shagging his lovely accomplices), and wondered giddily if there was any chance he might walk in to find Mordred stroking a cat.

The women reappeared and gave Arthur the nod.

For all the sinister build-up, Arthur nearly burst out laughing when he walked into the room. It was being used for an over-the-hill party later, as evidenced by the profusion of black and white streamers and balloons. Mordred was (sadly) not stroking a cat, but he was seated at a long banquet table beneath a banner that read, "Happy 50th Phil!"

"Looking good for your age," Arthur couldn't resist saying as he strolled over. He pulled out the chair beside Mordred and sat, arms and legs splayed wide.

In truth, the man seemed even scrawnier than Arthur remembered—and older, though that might be down to the bad lighting. He was still compelling to look at though. His posture was confident, and there was a weird, wide-eyed intensity to his face that would have been stunning if there'd been a hint of warmth behind it.

Mordred smiled that slick, lazy smile Arthur remembered from Avalon. His gaze slid down, fastening on Arthur's crotch. "In another setting, I'd take that as an invitation," he said quietly.

"Sorry, mate, I'm spoken for. As you well know."

Mordred glanced up, eyes flashing hot for a moment before he schooled his face into a bored mask.

"Do I?" he said. "I seem to recall several very unattractive men—and one or two very attractive, if unappealing, women—breathing down my neck and telling me I know nothing of the sort."

Arthur held Mordred's gaze, smiled, and waited. His father had promised him that no physical violence had been involved; beyond that, he really didn't care to know.

After a long moment, Mordred shrugged. "Suit yourself. Let's get this farce on the road, shall we? I'm sure those two cunts outside are eager to get back to their real jobs, licking your father's arse." He scooped a small notebook and pencil up from the table with a wry smile. "You'll have to forgive the primitive technology. I seem to have _misplaced_ my pen recorder."

_I would have let him suck my cock,_ Arthur thought with a jolt. _Would have begged him to, most likely, if Em hadn’t crashed in and saved me. And he would have done it. Sucked me off in the toilets and recorded the whole fucking thing._

"Why do you do it?" Arthur said. "Did someone royally fuck you over, or do you just hate yourself that much?"

Mordred's eyes narrowed. "You did take quite the knock to the head, didn’t you? Or have you forgotten how this works, you dumb sack of meat? You don't get to ask—"

"Indulge me," Arthur cut in, aiming a finger at Mordred's head. "I'd like to know who's running the asylum."

Mordred drew in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring. "Alright, I confess," he said, giving Arthur a sickening smile. "People like you make me ill. I enjoy exposing your hypocrisy."

"Right then." Arthur nodded. "Well, I won't keep you. As you say, some of us have actual jobs to be getting back to." He sat up and made a show of patting down his pockets. He noted, with satisfaction, that Mordred seemed unsettled by his reaction.

"Ah, here we go." He dug the folded square of paper out of his back pocket. He smoothed it out on one thigh and set it on the table, just out of Mordred's reach.

"Basic facts and permissible talking points, courtesy of my father. Have a gander."

Mordred leaned forward, face flushed now, and grabbed the paper. He shot Arthur a venomous look before ducking his head to read, but made no comment.

Arthur watched his eyes flicking rapidly back and forth over the page, his face impassive. The little shit probably cleaned up at poker.

"Don’t suppose I get to keep this?" he said, still reading.

"No."

Mordred began scribbling in his notebook. Arthur looked idly round the room, wondering who Phil was and what he had done to deserve celebrating his birthday in such a miserable fashion. The black balloons had little skeletons on them though, and they looked fairly accurate. Em would appreciate that.

Suddenly, Mordred stood, sheathing his notebook in his breast pocket and tossing the paper on the table.

"Where are you going?"

Mordred stared at a spot over Arthur's head. "I think I can fill in the blanks on my own."

"Sit _down,_ Mister Lot," Arthur thundered, channelling his father's best boardroom voice. "We're not finished here."

"Oh, I think we are."

Mordred sat anyway though, leaning towards Arthur, stabbing his finger repeatedly on the discarded sheet of paper. "This is a bunch of shite, Pendragon. On multiple levels. It's lies, but worse, it's treacly, _boring_ lies. And you're not going to tell me anything better."

"Ah, you see, that's where you're wrong." Arthur reached into his jacket and withdrew the stapled printout. Three pages, double-spaced. It had taken him forever to write. He'd been up 'til 2 am fiddling with it. Em had offered to look it over, but Arthur had been adamant; this was something he needed to do on his own.

He nodded at the paper on the table. "That's the story my father wants you to flog. _This_ is the story I want you to flog… but not just yet." Arthur tossed the printout onto Mordred's lap and stood.

Mordred didn’t say a word, just tore into the pages as Arthur loomed over him.

"What makes you think I won't leak—"

"You could do. And I could take you to court."

Mordred looked up, fluttering his eyelashes. "It's not libel if it's true, darling."

Arthur shrugged. "I know. It'd be messy for you to prove, though. Costly. Besides, I thought my way would appeal to you."

"And why's that?"

"Because," Arthur said, stepping closer, forcing Mordred to lean back in order to maintain eye contact. "You enjoy exposing hypocrisy. Isn't that right?" He unleashed his most toothsome smile.

"And to think," Mordred hissed, "I could've had such a noble, strapping cock if only that gangly twink of yours hadn't interrupted."

Arthur laughed, quelling the urge to grab Mordred's hair and plant a knee in his face.

"Fuck it, mate. Do what you like, but there go your future exclusives. And you won't be welcome anywhere with a rainbow flag from South Fields to the Out Skerries by the time my 'gangly twink' and I are through.

"I won't tell him you called him that, though, 'cause I wouldn't want to see you get hurt. He's stronger than he looks, is my Em. And good with knives."

Mordred swallowed, his neck as well as his face now burning up with splotches of colour. "When?" he said. "If I agree, when do you want it to run? I won't sit on it forever."

_Goal!_ Arthur thought, smirking. He plucked the discarded sheet of paper off the table, crumpled it, and shoved it in his pocket. "Same deal as with this. I'll ring you. It turns up anywhere before then, I've never met you and you're fucked. If you try and flog it anywhere other than where I tell you, I've never met you and you're fucked. If the merest _whisper_ starts going round; if Em or I get doorstepped by any of your charming colleagues..."

Mordred flinched as Arthur darted out a hand, clasping his shoulder. 

"I've never even heard of you, you are fucked _hard, _and not in the way you were hoping for. Got it?"__

__Mordred glared. "And if you bottle out?"_ _

__Grinning, Arthur gave him a rough pat. "Never gonna happen, mate. My father and I may not see eye to eye, but make no mistake: I'm still a Pendragon."_ _


	39. The Long Game

The last Saturday in February saw Arthur pacing his room at the London Epoch, head bowed, mobile cradled to one ear. He was a bundle of nerves, and not due to the upcoming League Cup final. Yes, the match had big implications—if Camelot won, they would be guaranteed a spot in the Europa League, plus it would be a morale boost going into the final third of the season—but there was little Arthur could do to affect the outcome from the bench.

He wasn't bitter about being named as a sub. The supporters had been hoping for the Hollywood narrative—Arthur's first match back being a triumphant showing at Wembley—but Coach worked off his own script, and he was playing the long game. He wanted into the group stage of the Champions League next season, which meant CFC needed either the FA Cup or a top-three finish. The League Cup was simply a dress rehearsal, albeit a very high-profile one.

Arthur told himself he could understand Coach's point of view because he, too, was playing the long game. However, sometimes he found it hard to be patient.

Like when Hector rang him only to put him on hold for bloody _ages._

"Well?" Arthur snapped when the moody swell of cello gave way to Hector clearing his throat.

_"Apologies. They rang me back. It’s taking some time to sort the details, but it looks like they're on board, son. You'll have Excalibur."_

"Yes!" Arthur held the phone against his chest and pumped his fist. Lance, his roommate this time round, glanced up from his book. It was some thousand-page historical doorstop that he'd been pecking away at since Christmas. With his reading specs and nubby shawl-collared jumper (hand-knit by Gwen, Arthur was willing to bet), he looked like someone's—very fit—grandfather.

Grinning, Arthur mouthed an apology and retreated towards the bathroom.

"Cheers, Hec. That's great news. And what about—"

_"No,"_ Hector cut in.

Arthur could almost see the accompanying head shake, the dour curl of his moustache. He sank down onto rim of the tub.

"Oh."

_"Look, it was a bold idea, but no one is willing to commit. I had plenty of perked ears, more than I'd expected, frankly, but they're all acting like a bunch of scared nancies… or, er, no offence. You know what I mean."_

Arthur murmured an acknowledgment, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was on his own then.

It had been a long shot, having Hector put feelers out amongst his peers, see if other agencies had players who might be willing to coordinate a coming-out. Gwen had given him the idea, or the seed of it, in one of her e-mails, something about presenting the enemy with a united front… or had it been multiple targets? Anyway, it was good to know that at least one of his new sponsors would stand by him.

Arthur heaved himself up off the bathtub. "Thanks for trying, Hector. I know this wasn't what you—" He winced as Hector let out a string of curses at someone in the background. "Hec?"

_"Bloody temps. Chin up, son. Last I checked, there's a bit of a match on at Wembley tomorrow, and you're odds-on to score in the second half."_

Arthur snorted, privately convinced that Bobby Moore's statue was going to see more action than he was. But all he said was, "Cheers. You know I'll do my best to justify the bookies' faith in me. 'Night."

* * *

After he rang off, Arthur stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was still shorter around his left ear, but the bruising was gone. In the harsh light he could see every clogged pore and burst capillary, the dark smudges on his lip and chin that presaged actual stubble. He couldn’t believe Excalibur was actually willing to pay him to flog razors (it really should have been Lance, or someone like Leon with a proper beard to maintain), but he wasn't complaining. Especially not now.

Arthur stuck his tongue out at his reflection, then wandered back into the room, restless.

"Everything okay?" Lance was peering over the top of his spectacles.

"Good news bad news, I guess. Mind if I watch some telly? I'll use my headphones."

Lance regarded him for a long moment—so long Arthur wondered if he'd had a brain fart and spoken gibberish or something—then slid a thumb between the pages of his book and rested it on his lap.

"This something to do with tomorrow?" he said quietly.

"Tomorrow? Nah, mate. Not really. I mean, my agent was trying to plump me up over the odds, but I doubt I'll see any action, so… whatever." Arthur shrugged. He bent to rummage in his bag for his headphones.

"But this is your club."

"What, Camelot?" Arthur looked up to find Lance still staring, his expression intense, almost wounded. "Yeah, of course it is. I mean, my father—"

"It wasn't a question," Lance broke in, leaning forward. "I was telling you. This is _your_ club. Your team. I've no doubt you'll have plenty of opportunities to shine on the big stage during your career, but some of the younger lads… who knows? They need their lucky number nine—we all need you—there with us, one hundred per cent. Even if you're sat on the bench."

Arthur straightened up, caught off guard by turn the conversation had taken. Lance was a seasoned pro, had played on the continent for years before returning to his mother's native England. Arthur had expected him to be more jaded.

"I'm not the bloody captain," Arthur muttered. "You don’t need me to—"

Lance lifted a finger and waggled it as if Arthur were a particularly dim-witted referee. "Oh no, my friend. We all look up to Leon, of course we do, and Percy is… well, Percy. He's a force to be reckoned with. But _you."_ He gave an embarrassed laugh, looking down at his lap. "That stunt you pulled, with Kilgary's sod? And sacrificing yourself at Western Isles?" He glanced up. "Arthur, you've become the heart of this team. Don't you see that?"

Arthur felt a prickle in the back of his throat. He eyed the carpet, the floor lamp, the patterns crawling across the wallpaper—anything but Lance's peeved, earnest face.

_Shit._

"Lance, that's… yes." Arthur swallowed. "And I'm sorry. It's just..."

"Yes?"

"Stuff," he finished lamely, glancing down at his mobile. "I've been dealing with a lot of personal stuff lately."

"Ah."

There was an awkward silence. Arthur rode it out, wondering when he could escape to the easy distraction of the telly. Suddenly Lance shifted in his seat and said, "You and Gwen..."

Arthur blinked. "What? Hey, no. Lance, I swear. All that rubbish on the bus, about me marrying her for her cakes? That was just me mucking about. Mostly to wind Elyan up."

"I know." Lance smiled, but his eyes were still troubled.

"Seriously." Arthur perched on the edge of his bed, clutching his mobile. He supposed it must look a bit odd to Lance, his and Gwen's friendship. They didn't actually see one another much, but they exchanged regular e-mails and texts. He'd come to value her advice, as well as her baking. "She's been a good mate. Helping me out, actually, with my… stuff. That I've been going through."

"I know that too. Well, I don't _know_ know, but—" Sighing, Lance tugged off his specs and set them aside. He splayed his book facedown on his lap, ran his hands through his hair.

"Look, I'm not accusing you of anything here. It's just I've noticed that Gwen's very protective of you, of your _stuff,_ as you put it.

"I can understand you wanting to keep a bit of distance between the club and your home life—believe me, there are days I feel I can't take a crap without it getting back to Gwen—but I can't help but notice our social circles are..." He brought his hands together, fingertips touching.

"Completely incestuous?"

Lance laughed, a surprised, delighted sound. "Not the word I would have chosen, but, yes."

"Not literally, of course," Arthur quickly amended.

"No." Lance grinned. This time, Arthur noted, the smile reached his eyes. "Hey, all I'm saying is that you can talk to me, if you need to. You already know what I think of your work, but I wouldn’t mind getting to know the Arthur that Gwen knows. Stuff and all."

"Yeah?" Arthur ducked his head, suddenly feeling a bit too warm.

"Yeah."

Arthur glanced up. Lance was still smiling, but softer now, head was tilted towards Arthur. He really was ridiculously handsome.

"Cheers," Arthur mumbled.

Lance shrugged, then clasped his hands behind his head. "Also, to be perfectly honest, I'd _really_ like to be invited round to one of those brunches or dinners or whatever at the corn exchange, meet the rest of the family. She keeps stalling though, and I get the feeling it's to do with some daft notion of protecting your and Em's privacy. Unless… Maybe she's just not that into me?"

Arthur bit off a laugh at Lance's rapid shift from casual to crestfallen. "I seriously doubt it, mate. But I'll have a word, if you like—better yet, why don't you two come round to mine next weekend, after the match? Leon and Morgana will be there. It'll probably just be takeaway but..."

Lance perked up. "Is this one of the infamous couples' nights Myror used to bang on about?"

"The low-profile version. But yeah, date night. So dress to impress, no shop talk at the table and pudding is mandatory—Morgana's rules."

"Ah. No wonder Tristan and Bors haven't been clamouring for invites."

Arthur laughed. "Yeah, you're probably right. Though Issie—" He looked down as his mobile began pinging and vibrating in the manner that marked an urgent message. It was from Em. "Hang on a sec."

_Piwno bara sap_

_Wtf?_ Arthur texted back, wondering if Em had fallen into the mini-bar or suddenly decided to make good on his promise to teach Arthur a bit of Welsh with which to impress Hunith. Or maybe both.

"Em alright?"

Arthur glanced up, alarmed. "How do you know it's Em?"

"Seriously? Mate, your face..."

"Shut the fuck up." Arthur ducked his head to read Em's reply: _PIANO BAR ASAP_

Arthur snorted. He checked the time. It was twenty minutes 'til curfew. Coach usually granted a bit of leeway, though, as long as you were in the team hotel, and not boozing or harassing the local wildlife.

"See, there you go again."

Arthur stood, pointed his phone at Lance's head. "Like you can talk. I see your dopey little smile every time Gwen texts you. I have to run downstairs for a minute. Cover me for bed check if I'm not back?"

"Arthur," Lance warned, brow furrowing. "You need your rest."

"I know, I know." Arthur clapped his mobile over his heart. "I won’t be long, I swear. And when I get back I will rest my arse off and wake up one hundred per cent focused on cheerleading us to victory. Alright?"

Smiling, Lance raised his hands in surrender.

* * *

The piano bar, an offshoot of the Epoch's lounge, looked closed. There was a velvet rope stretched across the entrance, and it was dark save for dimmed wall sconces and strips of blue and white neon running round the bar. The lounge was still lively though, so Arthur pressed his mobile to his ear as if deep in conversation and waded through, eyes down. He walked past the velvet rope, doubled back, and slipped round one of the stanchions. No one stopped him.

He found Em in a corner, screened by a potted palm. He was leaning back against the wall, tie undone and collar hanging open. He'd spilt tomato sauce on his shirt at the team dinner. Even in the half-light of a nearby sconce, Arthur could still see the stain.

He swallowed, glanced round to make sure they were alone, and pressed forward. Em pushed off the wall and met him halfway, fisting his hands in Arthur's shirt.

"Gonna give you something now, in case I can't tomorrow," Em murmured.

His eyes were dark and liquid in the low light. Arthur smelt liquor on his breath before the kiss landed—a firm, close-mouthed mash of lips that would have been innocent save for the fact that Em crowded Arthur's hips, bracketed his legs with his own and herded him round so their positions were reversed.

"That's for luck," he said, the words over-enunciated, drawn out hot and wet beside Arthur's ear.

Arthur felt as if he were being pushed and pulled at the same time. He resisted for a moment, off-balance, but Em was relentless, driving him backwards until he washed up against the wall.

"What's got into you?" Arthur whispered, letting Em's weight settle onto him. "Thought you were having an early night."

Em pulled back from the neck up, leering. "Coach bought me a drink."

"Just the one then?"

"Tee fecking hee." Em burrowed his face into Arthur's neck, sucked in a noisy breath. "Knows," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Coach knows. About us. Has done for ages."

"Shit."

"No, _shite."_

"What'd he say?"

"Whisky."

Arthur nuzzled into the thicket of Em's hair, smiling. "No, love. I think that's what you drank. What did he _say?"_

"That _is too_ what he said. Said, 'Whisky, son. You're having a whisky.' " Em broke off, huffing a laugh into Arthur's shoulder. "Then he said he hoped we knew what we was—what _I_ —was doing. With all the recent publicity."

"Double shite." Arthur let his head fall back against the wall. As expected, savvier citizens had read between the lines of all the carefully worded interviews. George had even dug up a photo of Em and Will looking more than a bit chummy—to anyone who didn't know about Em's low tolerance for champagne, and Will's high tolerance for Em—at an AIDS benefit from a few years back and revived it in select online forums.

Rumours weren't exactly _abounding,_ because even gorgeous physios were still small potatoes, but the truth about Em's sexuality was there if you went looking for it. In the past week, outside Knightswood, Sophia had gone from her usual feigned simper to looking at Em as if he were a double helping of chocolate gateau.

"Yeah," Em said. "He got a bit shouty… or rather, eyebrow-y. Made me swear I'm not toying with your affectations."

"What?"

Em lifted his head, rubbing their cheeks together, putting his lips to Arthur's ear. "Not _toying_ with your _affections._ His words. Asked me about Wills, and he seemed to think I'd been flirting with a porter."

"And had you?" Arthur was still getting used to it, Em's generosity with his eyes and his smiles. Em claimed it wasn't proper flirting unless his hands and feet got involved.

"Nah. _He_ was flirting. _I_ was letting him down gently. I told Coach it was really none of his business, but I'd sooner cut off my hands than mess you about—it's the whisky, it makes me maudlin—and he said, 'Glad to hear it, but I'd feel better if there were rings involved,' and proceeded to give me a _mortifying_ lecture on the importance of you being 'settled.' "

Arthur groaned.

"I _know._ And I don’t think he wanted to hear about twenty-four carat cock rings," Em mumbled, snuffling at Arthur's neck. "So you'll understand why I had to have another whisky. Then I got to thinking, maybe I could do better in the wag department. So..." Em exhaled a warm breath over Arthur's ear. He let go of Arthur's shirt and slid his hands up, cradling his face.

"Where was I?"

"Kiss for luck," Arthur said with a shiver. He closed his eyes and settled his hands on Em's hips, tugging, kneading.

"Oh, right. Better do that one again. Can't have too much luck."

Arthur was expecting something fierce and needy, akin to the ache he felt low in his belly, so he was surprised when he felt the sweet, shy press of lips on his temple.

"Luck," Em whispered. He sounded so very pleased with himself, as if luck was something tangible, something that sat on his skin and could be transferred to Arthur's face. Like lip gloss.

Arthur's breath hitched in his throat.

"Luck and luck and _luck."_ Em proceeded to kiss Arthur's forehead, his cheek, the bridge of his nose, pausing at the corner of his mouth. "Then, when we win, you'll be wanting one of these."

Em brought his thumbs to Arthur's lips, smearing them apart before licking, pushing in with his tongue. Pushing in with his hips, too, his muscles gone taut under Arthur's hands.

Arthur held on, wanting things he knew there was no time for, and let Em give his mouth a thorough tongue-fucking. He loved that fullness, that pressure in his throat, the tickle of wanting to swallow.

"If we win, how 'bout I give you what you gave me at Wessex?" Arthur rasped when Em pulled off.

Em groaned, pushing his face into Arthur's neck. "Huh, you… suck my cock at _Wembley?_ That's… _fuck._ I mean, I know plenty of blokes who've sucked cock _near_ Wembley, but not—"

Arthur gripped the back of Em's neck and pulled him into another kiss. He didn't begrudge Em those wild, exploratory years after leaving Ealdor, but he didn't want to think too hard about them.

_You've found me,_ Arthur thought, sucking one plump lip into his mouth. _Finders keepers, as far as I'm concerned._ He held onto it for a ridiculous amount of time, until Em was vibrating with a silent laugh. He let it go with a wet _pop._

"Arthur, what—"

"Can you get away the last two weeks in June?"

Em tilted his head, murmuring, "S'pose so, yeah."

"I'm taking you on holiday. Just us, on our very own homo-tastic getaway. Fresh air. Sunshine. None of this sneaking around and snogging in corners."

"Oh, see, I've become rather fond of this corner now." Em reached beyond Arthur's head, petting the wall. "So, sailor, where're you taking me?"

"It's a surprise," Arthur murmured, reaching up and drawing Em's hand back down, sliding it round his own neck. They kissed lazily for a while, relaxing into one another as the hot sting of arousal faded into something tolerable.

The spell was broken by the bell for last orders from the lounge. They parted almost sheepishly, wiping one another's mouths and adjusting clothing.

"You go on," Em said, cupping Arthur's cheek. "I'll wait a bit."

Arthur planted a kiss on his wrist and ducked around the potted palm. Then he paused.

"Oh, almost forgot. Hector rang. No joy on the group effort, but Excalibur still want my big gay face."

Arthur heard a soft groan. "Don't we all. That's what got me into this mess in the first place."

Arthur realised he must have been smiling like an idiot the whole way back to his room; he got curious glances in the lounge and the lift, not to mention the smug look on Lance's face when he returned.

"Don't," Arthur said as he shucked his trainers and tossed his keycard onto the nightstand. "Don’t you say a word."

Lance was in bed now, book sprawled across his chest. A black satin eye mask rode his forehead like an Alice band.

"It's allowed, you know," Lance said, yawning. "Having those kind of feelings. Happens to the best of us."

"Yes, but I am _British,"_ Arthur grumbled. "They're not supposed to show on my fucking _face."_


	40. Code of Conduct

Arthur had toured the new Wembley before it opened, but since then he'd only ever been in the crowd, at concerts and exhibition matches. This was his first time walking into the dressing room and seeing his shirt—his name and number—hanging there in its dark alcove, dramatically lit from above. The white decals practically glowed atop the pulsing red.

_You've been out for nearly a month,_ he told himself, pushing away at the sudden flare of longing. _And it's only the League Cup. No team worth its salt fields their best eleven for the League Cup anymore._

But it was no use. Camelot wasn't just any team. They hadn't been to a League Cup final since the 70s. Arthur had grown up listening to old Geoffrey rhapsodising about those days, and it didn’t matter what Lance said; it just wasn't the same from the sidelines.

Seeing his shirt hanging there, practically smelling the grass and tasting the salt tang of sweat—suddenly, Arthur wanted _in._ He wanted the goddamn Hollywood script, or at least as many minutes as Coach was willing to give him.

"Well fuck _me,_ Princess," Gwaine declared, stopping short next to Arthur and slinging an arm round his shoulder. The rest of the squad surged past them towards their own shirts, talking boisterously. "Never thought I'd see the likes of this when I was scrubbing the bogs at Deepmire. Not too shabby, eh?"

Arthur shook his head.

Lemmie rapped his knuckles against one of the wooden lockers. "It's only laminate, lads. Now, me grandda could do you the real thing."

"State of the world now, innit?" said Dagonet scornfully, shaking his head. "Don’t make shit like they used ta."

At which point the whole squad lost it, because although Dagonet was eighteen, he looked all of _twelve._

Arthur laughed along with the rest of the team, but the joy stayed on the surface; inside, he was a roiling mess. He changed and went through the warm-up on autopilot, trying not to begrudge Dagonet and Owain their happy shouts and bright swagger.

At the end of the warm-up, he jogged up to Coach, saying, "Look, I know what you said, but I'll play anywhere you put me. If we're up at the half, do you think I could—"

"I think," Coach growled, "you could get your arse in where you belong, with the rest of your team, and count yourself lucky I haven't dropped you from the squad sheet for violating curfew last night."

Arthur stopped in his tracks, chastened. "Yes, Coach."

Lance caught him up as Coach steamed off towards a knot of match officials.

"Sorry, mate," he said. "I did try, but he just _knew."_

Arthur nudged Lance's shoulder as they trudged off towards the tunnel. "So, you're a terrible liar," he said, tone lighter than his heart. "What will you give me to keep that information from Gwen?"

* * *

"You all right?" Em murmured once they were back inside. They were in the physio room, which had four tables to the Citadel's two, but was otherwise unremarkable—a drab, low-ceilinged way station with no loyalties. It already reeked comfortably of menthol, but Arthur missed Em's charts and Elena's mock-inspirational posters, the counter crowded with boxes of gloves and spools of colourful kinesio tape.

He sprawled back on one of the thinly-padded tables while Em set about taping his ankles. Kay was lying facedown on the adjacent table, a heat compress on his lower back.

"Sure thing," Arthur said, sighing. "I'm at Wembley, aren’t I? Stuck in a fucking bib."

Em glanced up. "Oh. Yeah, I hear you. Just..." He held Arthur's gaze.

"What?"

"Don’t do anything stupid. If you do go in."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Em tore off the end of the tape and inspected his work before straightening up, right hand still loosely wrapped around Arthur's left foot. "It means I know that Kanen's all gob and no manners, but we told Coach, it's being dealt with, and you can't afford to get involved. Alright?" He squeezed Arthur's foot and dropped the tape into his bag.

"Involved in what?" Bewildered now, as well as alarmed, Arthur sat up. "Kay, what is he on about?"

Just then Percy walked in, face like a thundercloud. "I still say his legs want breaking." 

"Down, Perce," Kay said, lifting his head. "I don’t mind a little argy-bargy, but there will be no bloodshed in my box."

"But he said—"

"It's just words," Em cut in. His eyes flashed to Arthur's for a moment, blazing. He gave a subtle shake of his head, then turned towards Percy, motioning for him to hop up on one of the free tables. "Lie back and relax, mate. How'd the knee feel out there?"

Percy positioned himself on the table, but didn’t take the hint. "It wasn't just words though. It was all these stories, these sick fucking _questions._ About the kids at the academy, and how I could stand getting my kit off in front of a poof."

"What?" Arthur ground out. Em shot him another look, mouthing an emphatic, "No."

Arthur clenched his fists, but fell silent.

Percy looked between the two of them in confusion.

"Well of course I told him to fuck right off, Wart. Told him Em's no poof; he's our Merlin and your best mate. Right?"

There was a strangled snort, a sudden judder of metal. Arthur looked over and realised that Kay was laughing, his whole body—not to mention the table frame—shaking with the effort.

"Um," Arthur said, not sure where to begin. "Actually..." But Em was already talking over him.

"Cheers, Perce, for defending my honour," he said, grasping Percy's right leg at the knee and ankle. "But technically I am. A poof, that is. Not my favourite word, but…" He glanced up, gave a little shrug. "I am gay."

"Oh." Percy looked more confused than ever. "Er, should I flex now?"

Em bit down on a smile. "Absolutely. You know the drill. Heel to bum, then extend slowly.

"Look, what Kanen was suggesting is a lot of malicious filth, alright? I've absolutely no sexual interest in children, nor you, for that matter—not that you're not a real stunner—and it's not contagious. I swear. MI5 confiscated all our converter rays long ago."

"Stop," Kay wheezed, pounding on the table, then the wall above his head. "Please, Em. Stomach cramp."

"I don’t get what's so fucking funny, Kendrick," Percy growled, jerking up onto his elbows.

"Hey. _Hey!_ Easy now," Em said, eyes going wide.

"Kay, shut up," Arthur said, finding his voice at last. "And Percy, _relax._ He's just trying to get in your head, is all—Kanen, I mean, not Kay. You know the type, sizes you up and starts jawing away when he sees he can't beat you on skill alone."

"Oh." Percy frowned, but he lay back. "So you're saying he's scared of me?"

Em glanced at Arthur, grinning, then looked up at Percy. "Shitless, mate."

Arthur watched as an answering grin spread across Percy's face.

"Good."

Kay rolled off the table then, still snickering. He chucked the compress at Arthur as he walked past, leaning in to stage whisper, "Bagsies on best man."

"What?!"

Kay backed out of the room, hands held high. "Just saying, Wart. Just saying." As he left, he started humming some bouncy number that had been doing the rounds lately. Arthur couldn't put his finger on it, but it made Em's ears go bright red.

Arthur opened his mouth. He had about a thousand questions about—seriously, what the _fuck_ —had just happened, but suddenly Leon stuck his head round the door and it was hurry-up time. Or, in Arthur's case, hurry up and wait.

* * *

A good twenty minutes had passed since the opening whistle before the jumble in Arthur's head settled out into three stark realisations: One, the world was full of Kanens, and he should probably learn to follow Em's lead and largely ignore them; two, Kay had been humming that bloody Beyoncé song about putting a ring on it; and three, he really, _really_ needed to get into this match, because it was fucking painful to watch.

Northern Plains United weren't dominant, not by a long shot. They weren't faster or more skilled than Camelot. In fact, they looked more like a pub league side, but there was a reason they'd survived in the top flight for three seasons now, despite their poor finances. They were hungry, and they were disciplined. They studied the fuck out of their opposition and did whatever it took to disrupt their favoured style of play.

Today they were playing a defensive 4-5-1, trying to strangle CFC's more experienced midfield, anchored by Leon, and isolate Dagonet and Owain up top. When Camelot's passing did manage to breach the roadworks in the middle third, there was nowhere much to go. Arthur thought NPU's back four wouldn’t have looked out of place strung on a rod in table football, they were that in sync with one another.

As yet another of Camelot's attacks fizzled out off Owain's feet and turned into a giant game of keep-away, Arthur blew out a frustrated breath.

"Careful, Princess," Gwaine said, leaning across Bors. They'd been left on the bench as well, at least for the first half, so Coach could see how Lemmie and young Gaheris were coming along. "Don't let Coach see you pout, or he'll leave you to stew in it."

"Sod off, Orkney. I'm not pouting. I'm wondering why one of those idiots doesn't try something other than running _into_ the bloody Borg brigade. Take it wide, force a corner or something."

Gwaine clucked his tongue. "Too early to risk Kanen's counterattack."

"Oh, I think Percy'd deal with it," Arthur said. "Gladly."

"I think Percy'd deal with a fucking _tank_ gladly," Bors added. "Something's got his blood up today."

They watched as Percy once more bundled Kanen off the ball—forcefully, though perfectly legally—leaving the grizzled striker fuming at the ref. The latter looked distinctly unimpressed, and flashed him a yellow for dissent.

Arthur chuckled. _"Someone,_ rather."

"Oh?" Gwaine said, sounding keen. "What's that mouthy fucker done now?"

Just then Em, who'd clearly been listening to the entire exchange, turned round in his seat. He had an impish smile on his face. "Flagrant code of conduct violations. He impugned my honour, not to mention upset Percy's delicate moral sensibilities."

"And no one will let Percy break his legs," Arthur added.

Gwaine laughed. Bors snorted and shook his head, muttering, "Daft git."

"I think it's kind of sweet, actually," Arthur said, getting a bit lost in Em's bright eyes, even if they were rolling at him in exasperation. "Hey, Emrys?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you—"

There was a whistle and a sudden surge of noise from the crowd. Everyone's focus snapped back to the pitch. Tristan was on his back, one arm flung over his face, the other beating the grass in frustration.

"Shit! Hold that thought." And Em was trotting off across the pitch, bag in hand.

In a daze, Arthur watched his heels kicking up, noticed that the collar of his tracksuit was askew.

He'd just come to his fourth stark realisation, which was that, although he'd only intended to ask Em to pass him a water bottle—his mouth felt horribly dry—what had popped into his head was, _Would you mind if I kissed you now, here, in front of like 80,000 people?_

"Shit," Arthur echoed.

"Orkney!" Coach barked, stalking towards them. "Warm up. Pendragon!"

Arthur started and sat forward, clutching his bib. "Yes, Coach?"

"Stop distracting my staff."

* * *

Arthur did his best not to sulk as Gwaine capered up and down the touchline. Coach was narked off at him, he got that, and perhaps rightly so. No one else got to sneak off with their partners in the team hotel (even if it was technically Coach's fault that Em had been all whisky-soaked and amorous) or bring their personal shite into the dressing room, so why should Arthur?

_And likely no one else gets distracted thinking about snogging their physio in the midst of a League Cup final,_ Arthur thought in a kind of fluttery panic. Though who really knew?

Tristan had evidently done something to his groin. He couldn’t have buggered it completely though, for as soon as they reached the touchline he hopped off the stretcher—holding the ice pack in place—and let Em escort him, limping, down the tunnel.

At the half, Arthur kept busy well away from the physio room. He handed out energy drinks and helped Kay stretch his back. He tracked down Dagonet and went over each of the changes Coach and Leon wanted him to make, then pulled a dispirited Owain aside and quietly told him to hang in there, that it was only a matter of time—and to try and remember to have a bit of fun.

"After all, we're at Wembley," Arthur said, indicating the posh dressing room—now a complete sty—with an ironic flourish.

"I know," Owain muttered, rubbing at his close-cropped hair. "May be my only chance."

"Ah." Arthur leaned in. "Not to worry, mate. You'll be back in April… and in May."

Owain burst out laughing. "You gonna guarantee that? Hey, lads, Wart's declared we're going to win the FA Cup."

"No guarantee," Arthur protested, raising his voice, "but I'd put a lot of money on it." He noticed Coach lurking nearby. "If that were allowed, I mean. Not that I’d _ever_ —"

"How much in grapes?" Elyan called out, giving Arthur a wink from behind Coach's back.

"Or pillow mints?" Gareth added, a grin lighting up his red, wind-chapped face.

Arthur pointed at him, suddenly reckless, suddenly _certain._ "All the pillow mints in the Epoch, my son. I feel it in my bones. It’s our year for glory."

"Glad to hear it, Madame Pendragon," Coach announced, looking up from his notes with an arch smile. "I trust that includes the next forty-five minutes?"

The dressing room erupted in howls of laughter.

As they trooped back out towards the tunnel, Coach motioned him over. "You're on after eighty if we're still drawn. And stay clear of Kanen. I've already spoken to the officials about it, and we'll be filing a formal complaint."

"Cheers, Coach." Arthur said. "Not just about the shift, I mean, but for standing up for—"

"You don't need to bloody _thank_ me for that, son," Coach sputtered, face going a bit purple. "It's what I'd do for any of you. Now, shoo! Go visualise balls… smacking into the back of the net, or whatever it is you do."

Arthur kept a very, _very_ straight face as he resumed his seat beside Bors. Then Em turned round and waggled his eyebrows, and Arthur was lost. He wondered how mad Em would be if he altered their plans. Slightly.


	41. One for the Team

Roughly two hours later, Arthur felt like the world’s biggest fraud. He found himself in the dressing room with a nine-carat gold winner’s medal around his neck, wiping grass and confetti off his face in a spray of champagne.

They'd won. In the end—after extra time and a nail-biting penalty shootout—they'd fucking won, and Arthur knew that that was the important thing, but he couldn't quite _feel_ it. He'd shied away from that header in extra time, hadn't gone in as hard as he would have a month ago. And then, in the shootout...

"Wart, catch!" Someone yelled, and Arthur put his hands up as a can of lager came flying at him. He opened it automatically, drenching himself anew in a bitter wash of foam. He cursed, but it was lost amidst the bounce and shiver of dancehall beats and the shouts of encouragement as Kay and Leon tried to fill the trophy with champagne, fire hose style. Percy was clutching it by two of the handles, face screwed up like a baby on the verge of a good cry. Gareth wobbled by with Owain on his back, the pair of them braying out "Sweet Camelot" for all they were worth.

Arthur grabbed a handful of the "2009 League Cup Champions" T-shirt Kay had forced over his head and mopped his face with it, then drained what was left of the lager. Someone handed him another.

He posed for photos when his teammates crowded round with their mobiles; he laughed when the people around him were laughing. But mostly he just sat and watched as the flotsam of the victory celebrations washed up round his feet—empty cans, shin pads, bits of cork and foil and grubby concretions of discarded tape.

_Should have gone right,_ Arthur thought as he took a pull from a bottle of champagne Geraint had pressed into his hand. _Right and low and fucking hard._

He handed the bottle off to Elena, replaying the shot in his mind, then the horrible moment afterwards, when it felt like gravity had tripled and his legs were clumsy, useless things made of piss and clay. It had taken all he had to turn and walk back to the squad, all lined up with their arms linked round one another, a row of weary faces who'd believed in him. He'd made a study of the tips of his boots, not wanting to watch their eyes accuse—or worse, slide away.

He'd slipped back into the line, but he didn’t think he'd taken a breath until Kay had tipped the Brigands' final shot round the post. With both teams on 3, Leon had grimly placed the ball, lifted his shaggy head and belted a shot just past the tips of the keeper's outstretched hands.

So maybe there were football gods after all. They just didn’t fancy Arthur.

* * *

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, impatient for the alcohol to start working and help jolly him up a bit. By this point he was taking pulls of whatever was handed to him—champagne, lager, more champagne, a nip of brandy, chocolate milk...

_Chocolate milk?_

He choked on the sweet, chalky liquid. He looked up to see Em's looming face, wet and glistening with champagne spray, and suddenly everything snapped back into focus.

Em's grin was trying hard not to tickle his ears. A crimson lipstick smear sat high on his left cheek. His "Champions" T-shirt, pulled on over his tracksuit, was far too large. It hung off him like a nightshirt.

"I'd advise you to swallow, not spit," he announced. "I promise it's good for you." Then, under the guise of inspecting a graze on Arthur's knee, he knelt and whispered, "You'd best slow down, pet, or you'll be no use to me later."

He looked up through his lashes, murmuring something, some sort of question, and Arthur couldn’t cope with all that brilliance, all that fucking approval and _possibility_ when he was trying to feel sorry for himself.

Em must have seen him flinch, for he frowned. His hands seemed to move in slow motion as he pulled them away. "Arthur, we _won."_

"Yeah, but…" Arthur fumbled the chocolate milk onto the bench. Em tracked the movement, his frown moving from his lips to his eyebrows.

_It wasn't perfect,_ Arthur thought. _I wasn't perfect. I wanted to be perfect, so then maybe I'd have an excuse to—_

"But what?" Em said, impatient.

"I missed."

"You had your shot blocked. Not the same thing."

"Same result though. I should have gone right, hit it harder."

Inexplicably, Em smiled. It looked rather forced, but still…

"It wasn't your placement, Arthur. It was your hips. Take it from a former keeper, as well as someone who's had a front row seat—you signalled left so clearly they probably read it up in Camelot."

Em's voice had risen steadily during the exchange, but no one seemed to be paying attention amidst the merry chaos.

"Em—"

"No," Em cut in. "If you're seriously telling me that, after all you—after all the _team_ —has accomplished, you'd rather wallow over taking a crap peno, then fine. Suit yourself. But drink that first." He nodded towards the plastic bottle abandoned on the bench.

"Em, wait. It's not just the penalty. I—" He reached out as Em began to stand, catching hold of his wrist.

He hadn’t intended to tug. He'd only wanted Em to stay down at eye level so he could fucking _explain,_ but next thing he knew Em was practically on top of him, the hand clutching his thigh the only thing keeping him from face-planting onto Arthur's chest.

"Arthur?" Em breathed.

"Emmett," Arthur parroted back at him in an exaggerated whisper.

Em tried to pull back, but Arthur held fast. He'd noticed that even Em's eyelashes were wet and wondered if they'd taste of champagne. He wondered who else had kissed Em, who had gathered him up and met his smiles tooth for tooth while he'd been tangled up in his stupid what ifs and self-pity.

_Fuck,_ he thought irritably.

"I wasn't _wallowing,"_ he said, taking pains to enunciate. "Much. But I thought… I had this feeling, you know? I was certain I had a goal in me, and I was thinking, when I did score, I wanted to…" Arthur brought his free hand up to Em's face, brushed his thumb over the lipstick mark on his cheek. He frowned. _"I_ wanted to do that."

A great shout erupted inside the dressing room. Arthur glanced up to see Leon being hoisted aloft as he drank from the trophy, champagne dribbling all down his beard. Everyone was loose-limbed, careless, triumphant. Everyone was smiling…

_Maybe this_ is _perfect. Or maybe it doesn't have to be._

When Arthur focused back on Em's face, it looked younger somehow, open and happy and dear, like when they'd been in Ealdor, sitting round Hunith's kitchen table.

"… later," Em was whispering, pushing at Arthur's hip. "I promise. Lance slipped me his keycard. Said he'd kip in with Leon and Tristan. We can sneak away from the party after you've shown your face. Just, right now, you need to let me go. Alright?"

He broke Arthur's hold with a deft rotation of his wrist, pulling back and up and—distressingly— _away._

"No." Arthur surged forward, following Em up. He caught him by one shoulder and the cheek again, this time scrubbing at the waxy red mark. It was stupid. It meant nothing, probably belonged to some random steward or fan or one of the wags, but he wanted it off. He wanted on. He wanted everyone to know that—

"Pendragon?"

Arthur started. Someone had muted the sound system, and Coach was standing not two yards away, in the midst of what had been the knot of revellers. A press of eyes—bright and bleary alike—was forming up, headed their way.

Arthur kept his hands where they were. "Yes, Coach?"

"Might I borrow Mister Emrys for a moment?"

"Yep. Hang on, I just need to…" He searched Em's face. Searched for… _there._

Questions asked and answered. Or rather, despite Em's racing pulse and rising blush, despite his wide Bambi eyes that said, _This wasn't the plan at all, at all,_ the little hitch in his breath and the quirk of his lips and his hands wrapping sure and strong round Arthur's waist said, _But oh jaysus what the fucking fuck._

And Arthur quite agreed. He leaned in, moulding his lips to Em's cheek, right where the mark had been.

So this wasn't a team meeting at Knightswood, wasn't a nice, calm Tuesday with plenty of time for the lads to digest things before the next match. He'd intended to leave Em out of it too, at first. But who needed calm Tuesdays when a flick of tongue brought the heady taste of champagne sweat and the faded tang of aftershave?

Fucking nobody, that's who.

Arthur heard Em's breath go out in a giggling rush, felt the muscles in his cheek bunch with the force of his smile. He tightened his grip, dragged his mouth to Em's and kissed that smile from end to end. One, two, three… four (because the creases at the corners totally counted) and one more, smack in the centre. Fierce, happy kisses.

Someone whooped. There were wolf whistles and a couple of startled exclamations.

"About bloody time!" Kay hollered as they broke apart, setting off a wave of laughter.

Arthur—still clutching Em's shoulder, because _dammit_ he wasn't about to let go now—turned to face Coach. His mouth was half-open, and his eyebrows were soaring.

_Like a double Wembley Arch,_ Arthur thought, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He didn’t try to stifle it. He laughed too. He laughed and shrugged, looking around at all the shining faces.

"Yeah, so… that," Arthur said. "Is me. _This_ is me, for those of you who don't know already. I'm gay and…" He glanced over at Em, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "And I'm also a bit mad for Emrys. More than a bit. In fact, I'd say it's looking like a permanent affliction."

When Arthur looked back at the squad he saw confusion, embarrassment, and a lot of gleeful smirking. Leon gave them a double thumbs-up, blinking away the drips of champagne and looking a bit like a proud, wet spaniel. Elyan was shaking his head, looking amused, and Lance's shocked expression melted into something positively gooey. Dagonet and Gaheris stood gawping until Kay grabbed them both in a headlock and roughly tousled their hair.

"That's the stuff, Princess!" Gwaine crowed, darting forward. He gave Arthur a sloppy half-hug, murmuring, "Though it could have used more tongue. The kissing, not the speech."

Em he clapped on the shoulders, adding, "I know you can take care of yourself, Emrys, but my offer still stands. Any time you need him taken down a peg or two, just say the word. For old time's sake."

"Cheers, Gwaine," Em said dryly. "That's awfully generous of you."

Gwaine winked, then pulled away, exhorting the squad to, "Put up your chins, lads. Surely it's nothing you haven't seen on Channel Four."

This garnered a few snickers, though Percy was still scowling. Elyan grabbed his arm, motioning him down so he could whisper in his ear. As Arthur watched, his scowl faded into a look of puzzlement. He shook Elyan off and pushed forward. Arthur tensed.

"But, Wart, you… so you're not leaving us?"

"What? No! Why would I be leaving?"

"To go and be a gay, with Em. E said you were coming out." There was a burst of laughter.

"I am. That just means—" Arthur bit his lip. "Not out of _football,_ Perce. I'm planning to… uh, be a gay right here, with the club. Help fill in a few of those holes in the Camelot trophy case?"

"Oh," Percy said, face clearing. "That's alright then. So what's all the fuss?"

"Perce," Leon began, wincing, but Arthur cut in, looking from Percy to the rest of the lads.

"No fuss. Honestly. I'm just tired of lying, especially to you lot. It's become a distraction and it's… well, it's stupid."

"Hear, hear," Kay muttered. Arthur shot him a look.

"I mean, I know over these past months you've all had my back—Em's too—one way or the other. Both on the pitch and off, and I can’t tell you how much…"

He swallowed, blinking. He felt Em's hand splay across his lower spine, just enough pressure to keep him from falling apart completely.

"Yeah, yeah," Leon said, grinning his gap-toothed smile. "We love you too, Wart. Now stow it and put on your drinking boots, alright? No more grand speeches. Not tonight."

Coach, who'd been watching the proceedings with a beady eye and an inscrutable expression, cleared his throat.

"Indeed. If you're _quite_ finished then?" he said, looking steadily at Arthur. It came out more amused than cranky, despite the intensity of his gaze. He gestured towards Em. "I do actually need a word with Emrys before you lot go wreak havoc on the rooftops of London."

"It's just the one, Coach," Elyan said, patting his arm. "Honest. We promise we'll stay in the hotel."

"And we'll try and keep the havoc to a minimum, won't we, lads?" Leon added, looking around. His gaze lingered on Gwaine, who suddenly became fascinated with the ceiling.

Coach looked thoroughly unconvinced, but all he said was, "Just don’t let me read about it in the papers, Belcourt. And the airport bus leaves at oh seven hundred. If you're not on it, you find your own way back to Camelot. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach," the team chorused. With a final, pointed glare at Arthur, he turned to leave.

Arthur exhaled shakily. Em gave his back a little rub, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, like a promise; then he was striding after Coach, looking incredibly dignified for a man who was wearing a wet tent of a T-shirt over a tracksuit and blushing to the tips of his magnificent ears.

Coach waved Em ahead of him out the door. Then he paused, looking back.

"One last thing. All of you will have noticed Kanen was subbed off at the half, and many of you know exactly why. If you don’t, speak to your captains. They'll explain." Coach waited for nods from Leon and Percy before continuing.

"All I'll add is that, were Kanen on my team, he'd already be sat out on the kerb with a 'Free Transfer' sign pinned to his forehead. That kind of spiteful rubbish has no place at this club. _None,_ understood? If any of you feel differently, you'd be welcome to join him."

Coach gave them a thin smile. "Right then, I'm off. Feel free to crank up the bippety-bop and resume your abuse of our shiny new silverware. You've earned it. And I'd say Pendragon is looking a mite parched."

* * *

Sadly, Arthur did not get to suck cock at Wembley.

Not long after he'd had what was left in the trophy upended over his head, the dressing room was invaded by senior management, Uther included. There was a fresh bout of toasts and full-throated singing, and Arthur joined in with a grateful heart. Praise was doled out thick and silky, like Devon cream, everyone's efforts having been recast in the glow of the win.

"At least you didn’t sky it, son," Uther murmured, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. He had a genuine sparkle in his eye that Arthur almost didn’t recognise, it had been so long since he'd seen it. His father was teasing him.

"Thank fuck for Kay, you mean," Arthur replied cheerfully, wiping the mouth of the latest bottle off on his shirt and offering it to his father. "And Leon."

"Cheers," Uther said. Arthur and several of the others watched in bemused awe as he tilted his head back and necked half a bottle of bubbly in one session, like a pro.

Eventually the Wembley staff stuck their heads in to chivvy everyone along. The suits left to continue their gloating amongst their own kind, and the squad drifted off to the showers.

Arthur lingered as long as he could, but he was never alone and Em did not return before they were herded off towards the bus that would take them back to the hotel. As they loaded up, Arthur received a text from Em saying he'd been delayed.

_C u at the party. Wear smthng pretty_ the message ended.

_My face?_ Arthur typed back, chuckling.

A minute later Em replied with: _Sigh. Spose it'll have to do._


	42. Bag of Tricks

The party was in the Epoch's rooftop Celestial Lounge, an orgy of teak and white leather overlooking the Thames. The hotel had happily agreed—no doubt with little rapidly-multiplying pound signs in their eyes—to make the space available last-minute for the exclusive use of the victorious Gold Dragons and their guests. An army of patio heaters took the raw chill off the night air, and constellations of lanterns swayed above Arthur's head. Combined with the potted exotic greenery (not to mention the potted exotic girls sashaying round with trays of food and drink), he got the impression the Epoch was trying hard to persuade its patrons that, despite the iconic view, they were far, far from London.

The only view that interested Arthur, though, was Em.

Arthur spotted him as soon as he arrived. His hair was fluffed out into the kind of flyaway nest that resulted when he took a hasty hairdryer to it, in the absence of a comb or product. Like the squad, he had traded in his club suit for civvies—form-fitting denims and a dark button-down shirt. Unlike the squad, however, he was wearing his jeans tucked into those fucking _boots,_ the ones with a thousand and one buckles that he'd worn at Avalon.

"They're my cruising boots," Em had teased once, when Arthur was bitching that he didn't wear them enough. "Haven't been doing much of that lately, have I?"

Em saw Arthur, too. He gave him a discreet once-over and a fleeting, genuine smile that made Arthur glad he'd dared the white zip-neck jumper, the one that was a shade too snug and still looked brand new because he was always worried he'd stain it.

If they were in a film, Arthur mused, all the people with their glistening bottles and trays full of caviar with crème fraîche and salmon foam would part to a swell of orchestral music. They would stalk towards one another. There would be a slow meeting of eyes, followed by a tangle of hands and lips, then—if Arthur was directing—a straight cut to a close-up of Em's straining arse and thighs as he fucked Arthur hard up against the mirrored wall of the hotel lifts, complete with a cheesy rutting bass beat.

Instead, Em was immediately mobbed by Gwaine and his female entourage as he descended into the lounge proper, and Arthur realised Gareth was still watching him expectantly, waiting for him to say whether or not it would be all right if he told his mum.

Arthur sighed.

"Only, Leon said it's to stay within the club for now," Gareth added, "but ever since you came to tea, she's been after me about your lady friend. She's convinced you must have one tucked away someplace. Wants to give her the recipe for those cherry scones you were so fond of." He shrugged apologetically.

"Sure thing," Arthur said, slumping back against the overstuffed sectional. He took a cool sip of water and reminded himself that patience had its virtues. So they said. "Though she should probably just give me the recipe. Em's not much of a baker."

"And that'd be you now?" Gareth chuckled. "You told me mam you thought all the different sorts of flour were interchangeable."

"About time I learned then." Arthur glanced over, flashed Gareth a smile. "Just in case Gwen ever cuts us off."

"Or follows Lance to his next club. It's not like—" Gareth's face crumpled. He pressed his lips together, looked steadily down into his beer.

"Hey, mate. What is it?"

"This team," Gareth muttered. Arthur waited, and eventually Gareth looked up again. He nodded towards the crowd milling around them, beneath the lanterns. "I know it won’t be the same next season. Coach'll be allowed to spend after this, deepen the squad for Europe. Clubs will be after Lance and Elyan. And Gwaine; someone's always after Gwaine. Not that that's a bad thing, but…"

Arthur slung an arm around Gareth's shoulders and gave him a squeeze, answering his startled look with a smile. "Who's to say they won’t be after you? You've been massive for us this year."

Gareth shook his head. "Don’t know about that. Kay still rides me as hard as he did the day I arrived."

"That's only 'cause he cares, thinks you've got something. Believe me, if Kay thought you were shite he'd ignore you, let you hang yourself out there while Percy did all the shouting."

"Yeah?" Gareth ventured a small smile of his own.

"Yeah. Besides, there's still three months left in the season. Plenty of glory to be grabbed, my son, if you're so keen to leave us all behind."

Gareth tried to shrug off his arm, laughing. "Dammit, Wart, 'm not trying to—"

"What's this, cuddles for young Gareth?" Kay bellowed. He swooped in with a statuesque woman on each arm and a bottle in each fist, eyes shining. "Wee Gareth Goodfoot… feet. Works hard so I don't have to. Down we go, ladies, easy now. If you break him he's yours. Wart, be off with you. I didn't bring enough to share."

Arthur gratefully extracted himself from the press of bodies and stood, searching for Em. He and Gwaine had escaped the model brigade and found Elena and Tristan, who were camped out on adjoining deck chairs with an iced pail of beer. By the looks of it, Tristan was enjoying playing the wounded hero, and Elena and Gwaine were flirting by way of comparing war stories, enthusiastically showing off their various scars.

Arthur started towards them but was waylaid by Percy, who was full of fumbling, champagne-fuelled apologies. When that was sorted—or rather, circumvented by a series of rough hugs, shoulder slaps, and the promise of future pints—Owain wanted to talk cars. He was thinking of putting his League Cup bonus towards a new one, and wondered what Arthur thought of the latest Murciélago versus the Hengroen CF47.

* * *

The next half hour turned into an agonising farce, he and Em working towards one another one drunken encounter at a time. Arthur had switched to water after leaving the dressing room, heeding Em's wishes, but most of the squad had settled in for a proper lash, and they all wanted to roar off a toast to this or ask a question about that, to reminisce about that time when…

Arthur knew that this was just the lads celebrating and showing their love, and it was touching and all, really. _But._ Well, frankly, they were also being a bunch of tedious, cock-blocking wankers.

There were moments when he wondered if they were doing it on purpose, if, now that they knew he and Em would probably like nothing more than to sneak off for a shag, they were intent on making a game of it, seeing how long it'd be before one or the other of them did something desperate. But as that would have taken actual conscious effort and precious minutes spent not bragging or necking booze, he rather doubted it.

Arthur had half a mind to force the issue, fake a stomach complaint and hope Em would have the sense to follow (or simply grab him by his shirtfront and drag him off to the lifts), but he dreaded the shit they would get for it in the morning. And every morning thereafter. It was one of the definite downsides of dressing room romance.

The next time Arthur managed to catch Em's eye, the latter jerked his head towards a corner near the outer railing, blessedly empty save for an ornamental column and a cluster of potted trees. Arthur nodded and edged his way towards the spot, slapping backs and making small talk until he felt the column at his back. He kept his eyes on the party, alert to any fresh interruption. He didn't even look over when he felt a shoulder press against his own and heard a soft, familiar sigh.

Arthur had a snappy greeting at the ready—something about Em's newfound kink for potted palms, how they had to stop meeting like this—but upon hearing the sigh he reached out, letting his fingers brush against Em's.

"Everything okay?" he said.

"Fine and dandy." Em linked his pinkie through Arthur's, briefly giving it a squeeze. "Sorry about disappearing earlier."

"Not your fault. What'd Coach want anyway?"

Arthur felt Em shift beside him. He released Arthur's finger, along with a deeper sigh. "It was Kanen. He wanted to apologise—or, rather, I think his gaffer told him to. Hard to tell if it was genuine or a bid to avoid further penalties."

"Fuck. How could you even stand being in the same room with him?"

"I almost couldn't," Em admitted. "That's why I didn’t come back. Needed to clear my head for a bit. Then Will rang, and my mam, and…" Em paused, chuckling softly. "Anyways, I'll have to take a rain check on that blowjob."

"You wish," Arthur huffed.

"Indeed I do. So there'd better be some truth behind all that bluster about the FA Cup, because—" Em broke off as a loud chorus of Queen's "We Are the Champions" broke out amongst some of the younger lads.

They watched as Dagonet and his cohort, who'd clambered onto a table, were pulled down by Bors and hotel security, nearly toppling one of the patio heaters. Once the singing quieted down, Em brushed a thumb across Arthur's wrist.

"You get any stick from the lads?"

"Some. Nothing with malice, though. Mainly it was for in-house poaching. They're worried you'll leave us, go over to the wags."

Em snorted. "Not bloody likely. Or at least, not until they come up with a new acronym."

"What, habs? Pabs?"

"Ugh. Those sound like things you get tested for after a rough night on the docks. Or in Camelot's stable dist— "

"Hey, none of that now," Arthur cut in. "You'll just have to keep your day job."

"Quite." Arthur could hear the amusement in Em's voice. "Though Coach agrees it's probably best if I start shifting more of my time to the academy. After our little 'display,' as he called it."

"Yeah, he's not big on PDA." Arthur leaned his head back against the column, gazing up at a palm frond dripping with miniature pink and orange lanterns, and beyond that jagged slices of the hazy night sky. "I'm not sorry I did it though."

"Good. Neither am I." Em chuckled. "I mean, it was arguably daft, not to mention _mortifying,_ but it was also pretty damn near one of my most shameful, Hollywood-inspired fantasies."

"Oh? What was off—wrong leading man?"

"Wrong dressing room. I'd fancied it happening at the Citadel, if you must know."

Arthur glanced over, smiling. Then whatever he had been about to say dried up in his throat, because he realised that Em's shirt, a brown button down number, was subtly _striped,_ not with different colours but by every other vertical panel being _sheer,_ which meant…

_Holy fucking hell._

Which meant that in the soft glow from the lanterns, Arthur could see most of Em's right nipple and half his left. Away from the warmth of the patio heaters they were starting to pinch up nicely.

All thoughts of patience—of enjoying being able to indulge in idle flirtation in the midst of a team party—dissipated. His earlier pang of lust returned in a blinding rush.

"Em… Emmett," he said hoarsely. "Your shirt. Maybe we should…"

He didn’t realise he'd lifted a finger, pointing—reaching—until Em caught it in his hand.

"Arthur?"

"For fuck's sake. I can’t believe you've been _wearing_ that the whole damn time, and I… Never mind. Can we leave now? I think we should leave."

Em looked down at his chest, then raised his eyes to Arthur's, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "You like this?"

Arthur nodded. "Mmm. It's like they're playing peek-a-boo with me. Your nipples. And I kind of want to—" He gave a guilty start as a burst of raucous laughter reminded him of their surroundings. "Um."

Em scanned the crowd, then pulled Arthur round the other side of the column, deeper into the cluster of trees. He had a glint in his eyes.

"Never mind them. Go on and tell me. What is it you want, Arthur? What do you need?"

A veritable porny montage flashed before Arthur's eyes, but what first escaped his lips was, "Oh god, Em, in your _boots,"_ followed by, "Full. Of you. Everywhere. Just _full._ Like you said the other week. I don't care how—tease me, tie me up, make me beg for it. I just want you to use me. Like before the…"

Arthur swallowed, looking down between them, to where Em still had hold of his finger.

"I want you to fuck me like you did before the injury. However you want. No holding back. Like I'm the best fucking thing, and you can't get enough."

Em's taut belly jumped with the force of his inhale.

"Jaysus, Arthur, you _are_ and I _can't_ and… shit, I don’t have any of our gear with me, but, if you can just wait—"

"What?" Arthur's head snapped up. He felt like he might cry or punch something in sheer frustration.

"Oh, ssh, no," Em soothed, letting go of Arthur's hand and stroking his shoulders. His eyes roved over Arthur's face and neck, petting the collar of his jumper and the planes of his chest. "We'll have to improvise, is all I meant. So give me a few minutes—say, twenty—to go grab my physio bag and set up, then meet me down in yours. Alright?"

Arthur nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

_Physio bag?_ he thought, a whole new mess of half-formed fantasies pushing into his already crowded, libidinous brain.

"You had anything to drink since you left Wembley?"

Arthur shook his head. "Just water."

"Good boy."

Arthur felt a searing warmth on his cheek—a kiss, he realised, too late to do anything about it—then he was standing alone amidst the blushing lanterns and the potted palms. He adjusted himself in his trousers and, with a burgeoning grin, took careful note of the time on his wristwatch.

* * *

Twenty-nine minutes later—exactly, because Arthur had timed it, at least until Em removed his watch—Arthur found himself stripped bare and in the process of being taped up by his physio in a way he never had before.

"You're telling me, this whole time, we've been using _bondage tape_ on our socks?"

"Same principle, but bondage tape is usually shiny. And not purple and, uh… lime green." Em held up a fresh roll, smirking. He was still dressed, peep-show nipples and all. He'd promised Arthur to cover his eyes last, after he'd stripped down to his boots.

"Sorry, you lot used up all my black and red. It's cheaper to get the bulk multi-colour packs through the tack shops, you know. One of the little cost savings I've brought to Camelot."

Arthur gave a tug, testing his wrist restraints. Em had already fashioned him protective cuffs from the gaudy cohesive tape, using it to secure some pre-wrap padding before binding each wrist to the headboard with the stiff, seriously sticky shit that could rip your skin off.

"So this is what's used on horses?"

Em grinned and scooted back, hovering over Arthur's thighs. "And prancing ponies. Can I do your cock and balls?"

"Shwa?"

"Your cock, Arthur. I'd like to wrap it up and tape it to your stomach." Em reached down, fondling Arthur's sac. He gathered up all the slack skin and gave an experimental squeeze round the top.

Arthur grunted.

"I'll do these separately," Em went on thoughtfully, "with a strip of pre-wrap… doesn't have to be much tighter than the harness to start with, and I'll keep the scissors right here, only—"

"Do it," Arthur ground out, squirming on the starched white bath towel. "Tight's okay. Tight's good. But no more talk of scissors and balls in the same sentence. Even if they're blunt tip."

Em gave Arthur a blinding smile.

He'd stripped everything from the bed but the fitted sheet and swapped the downy hotel pillows for the firmer cushions from the settee. The towel, though, had been Arthur's idea. It reminded him of the gym, or of the white protective covers on the physio beds at Knightswood. He'd told Em of his fantasies of getting fucked on one of them someday.

"Leave my ankles free though, yeah?" Arthur added as Em released his balls and started to unspool a length of tape. "So you can bend me in half, take advantage of what all your bloody yoga stretches have done to me."

"Aha." Em raised an eyebrow. "At last you understand the true purpose of my work, young padawan."

"God, you…" Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled his feet up, trying to kick Em's arse with his heels. "Weirdo."

Em dropped the tape and grabbed Arthur's ankles, looking pointedly down at Arthur's jutting cock. It was already wet at the tip—Arthur had spent the last quarter hour of his enforced wait time trying not to call too much attention to his raging hard-on.

"That's not what _he_ thinks, Pendragon. He's my little _bitch._ About time the rest of you caught up."

Arthur bit his lip, trying to hide his smile. "Am I going to need a safeword here, Master Emrys?"

"If you like."

Arthur thought for a moment. "Ooh, I know. How about 'Mordred'?"

Em looked up, eyes crinkled with delight. "Jaysus, that's… sick. And perfect. You are— _shite."_ His eyes went wide as he released Arthur's ankles and scrambled off the bed, sending the discarded tape flying.

"What is it?" Arthur grabbed at the slats on the headboard and hoisted himself into a half-seated position. "Em?"

"The shit with Kanen. Coach said he's releasing a statement. _Fuck,_ why didn't I think to—" Em scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's going to be all over the news tomorrow, if it isn’t already. And you know the next thing out of the collective media gob is going to be the whole gay player debate. D'you think there's any danger of Mordred assuming… well, of him getting antsy?"

"I don't know. But my father certainly will be. I should—" Arthur started forward, having momentarily forgotten he was bound to the bed. "Shit. Will you fetch me my mobile? Maybe it's time to go ahead and—"

_"Arthur!"_ If possible, Em's eyes went even wider.

"No, you twit. Not that." Arthur shook his head, huffing out a laugh. "I was thinking we should tell him to go ahead and run the bits on _you._ He can rework the puff piece into something related to today, and we'll give him the inside scoop. That'll grease his trousers."

"Ew." Em wrinkled his nose as he walked over to the other bed, where he'd tossed Arthur's clothes. When he returned, he perched beside Arthur and leaned in to give him a kiss.

"You know, you're developing a real head for this PR stuff. I'm telling ickle George not to get too cosy."

"I bet you'll enjoy that."

"Oh, yes." Em nodded, a dreamy look in his eyes.

Before Em could drift too far into his fantasies of humiliating George, Arthur directed him to Mordred's contact info—listed under "T" for "twat"—and summoned up his best privileged wanker voice.

"No laughing," he warned.

Em pushed the keys and held the mobile up to Arthur's ear. He clapped his other hand over his nose and mouth and averted his eyes.

_What the little shit wouldn’t give if he could see us right now,_ Arthur thought gleefully as he fed Mordred the story. He glanced down his naked body at the supplies spread across the bed. In addition to the scissors and various tapes, there were broad straps salvaged off a knee brace, cooling spray, a few mysterious pieces of hardware and—the highlight, really, as far as Arthur was concerned—one of the fat syringes typically used with pain relief gel.

Em, naughty genius that he was, had filled it with lube.

"Hook. Line. Sinker," Arthur said as soon as Em had ended the call. "Now, where were we?"

Em held Arthur's gaze for a moment. Then, satisfied by whatever he saw there, he placed the phone on the nightstand and stood, scanning the floor. He bent over—treating Arthur to a lovely view of his pert denim-clad rear—and straightened, holding the lime green tape aloft with a triumphant expression.

"I believe I was about to bind up your man bits, and a few other bits besides, and spoil you rotten."

"Excellent," Arthur breathed, relaxing back onto the bed and pushing Mordred's ugly laugh from his mind. "Proceed."

* * *

In the end—amidst a great deal of squirming and stretching, laughter, appreciative murmurs, and the quiet _snick snick_ of bandage scissors—Em bound up pretty much everything interesting there was _to_ bind except Arthur's mouth and his arsehole.

"Because I'll be needing these," he whispered, brushing a thumb over Arthur's lips. He repeated the gesture between his legs. "Though I reserve the right to stop them up when they're not in use."

"Yes, please," Arthur murmured, closing his eyes, testing how everything felt without the distraction of sight, all the places he was being held open or held in place or just _held._

After binding his cock and balls, Em had made him a sort of vet wrap garter belt. The little strips snaking down from the hip band didn’t attach to stockings, though, but to broader bands of tape wrapped round the meaty part of his thighs. They weren't quite as practical as the thigh straps they had at home. For one thing, they had no attached grips for Arthur to cling to, but they triggered the same sensations, that powerful urge to spread himself, to hold himself open while his lust-addled brain ran around in breathless circles contemplating all the things that might come next.

As if he'd known, Em had compensated by gently lifting and spreading Arthur's arse cheeks and fixing them in place with pink kinesio tape.

"And now we see you for what you are," he'd teased, "you greedy baboon." Then he'd finished Arthur off with a tight binding of the lime green vet wrap around his chest, right over his nipples.

It felt a little like an innocent cardio monitor and a lot like some amazing new kind of titty foreplay, and while Em was tidying up and dimming the lights Arthur took a moment to ponder how women wearing those masher sports bras ever got anything done. But then maybe all the tight squeeziness going on between his legs had tainted his thinking.

He had to admit, there really was something to this whole cock and ball bondage thing. It made _everything_ so sensitive, so… charged. And he felt fucking _huge._

"Ready?"

Arthur felt a gentle touch on his ankle and opened his eyes. Em had switched off the overhead light, but only dimmed the bedside lamps and wall sconces.

"Yes," he said, swallowing thickly as Em popped the button on his fly with a thumb and dragged down the zip. "God, yes. Yes, please."

It wasn't a striptease. Well, it was, but not in the formal sense. There was no music, no attempt by Em to be coy or flirtatious. He simply undressed, slowly, looking up and finding Arthur's eyes after each button, buckle and cuff that needed his attention.

He took his boots off in order to remove his jeans. Once he was completely naked, he turned his back to Arthur, sat on the end of the bed, and put them on again.

Arthur watched in silence, taking shallow breaths and falling in love all over again with the pale, sculpted shoulders—turned golden in the lamplight—and flirty nipples, with the long, lean, lightly-furred thighs and the shaggy thatch between them. With the bony jut of Em's hips and the graceful curve of his spine and the way his engorged cock turned an angry, meaty colour so out of keeping with his controlled demeanour. 

Unlike Arthur, casual nudity was not second nature to Em. Without Arthur's pestering and pleas he tended to strip perfunctorily and sneak back into some part of his clothing after bathing or sex. Part of it was the having no body fat and poor circulation thing, but Arthur suspected there were deeper issues.

It meant everything that Em had finally come to accept—if not understand—just how much pleasure Arthur derived from watching him like this, how much he actually _craved_ the sight and touch of Em's bare skin.

When Em finished with his boots, he knelt on the bed and stood slowly, shifting side to side until he found his balance on the mattress. Eyes locked with Arthur's, he walked around and over him, until the tips of his boots were tickling Arthur's armpits. Then he sank down, one knee at a time.

The musk of Em's crotch lit a fire in Arthur's brain. Clearly he'd showered, but he'd spent just enough time in those tight jeans for him to sweat a little, for his own scent to overpower that of the hotel's soap.

Arthur inhaled deeply, shameless and open-mouthed, and felt a delicious shudder in his stomach. It travelled through his cock and thighs and all the exposed skin in between.

"Thank you," he whispered as Em fastened the final strip of tape round his head, cutting off his sight.

"You're welcome," came the reply, kissed softly against his lips. Then, "Open wider, darling, and point your tongue. You're going to get something all wet for me."

* * *

If he were being honest with himself, Arthur had been expecting the sharp tang and pucker of arsehole—had maybe even, if he were being super honest, been excited by the thought in that primal fear-it-but-want-it kind of way. So when Em's cock smacked him in the face and his balls smeared across Arthur's chin, he moaned, "Mmm, yeah, let me eat—"

Then was confused when the heavy scent of sex lifted and his mouth was stopped up by… a nipple?

Arthur's muscle memory kicked in before rational thought. He lapped at the fleshy nub briefly before trying to suckle, but Em pulled away, only allowing him the barest lick.

"That's what you wanted to do up on the roof, isn't it?" he said smugly. "You wanted to rub my tits. Suck on them in front of all your mates."

"Mpf."

"Hmm." Em pressed forward, mashing his chest into Arthur's face. Before he could latch on, though, Em palmed his head and directed him to the other nipple, feeding it and a pinched-up portion of his pec into his mouth. "You _do_ like that, don't you? If I didn't know how much you crave cock, I'd be— _oh."_

Em pulled back again, and suddenly fingers were stroking the pad of Arthur's tongue, pressing down.

Arthur's mouth watered.

"It's not the tits, per se, but the sucking. You just want me in your mouth, don’t you, Grompet? Any way you can get me."

Arthur closed his lips round Em's fingers, nodding. Because although he _did_ have a bit of a thing for a certain pair of nipples, Em's assumption about his general oral fixation wasn't in the least untrue.

After that, Arthur's mouth was never empty for long. Em kept it occupied with tits and tongue and fingers, then—after a brief foray downwards to check on Arthur's trussed package and tease his hole with a squirt from the fat syringe—his cock.

He grasped Arthur's hair, dug his knees into his armpits and rode his face, giving nothing away but the occasional grunt, harsh pant, or command to, "Ssh... oh, easy now, love. That's it. No need to try so hard. You've nothing to prove. Just relax and take it."

Arthur inhaled deeply through his nose and curled his fingers round the twisted ropes of tape binding him to the headboard. He kind of wished he were free to grip Em's boot-clad ankles, to rub his thumbs over the worn leather and smooth buckles, then run his hands up Em's thighs to palm his tight, bossy arse, but he also knew that that was far too many things for him to pay attention to at once. Better to concentrate on whatever Em chose to give him.

He gripped as tightly as he could with his arms and just... let go everywhere else, knowing Em wouldn't let him choke. Wouldn't let him fail. He felt invincible, justified. Even the tickle of pubic hair in his nose and the sharp knees ramming his pits seemed part of something essential and rather fine.

_"Jaysusfuck,_ you gorgeous cocksucker. You…"

Arthur suddenly went from floating blissfully to chasing thin air, his throat convulsing round a cock that was no longer there.

"Sorry, darling, but your throat is a greedy whore tonight, and I don’t want to come yet. Here, suck on this."

Em swiped a thumb across his upper lip, then a tough wad of fabric was pushed into his mouth. It smelt familiar. Filthily, gloriously, familiar.

_Is that... ohgod, Em's pants. The grey briefs he took off just now. Must be._

Arthur grunted, clenching the muscles in his hips and arse, knowing there was no way to get more friction any place he needed it but unable to help himself.

"You good? Just go limp if you need to safeword, okay?"

Arthur nodded.

The next thing he knew, Em's comforting weight was gone. After a brief pause, he felt the mattress dip down low, between his legs, and something cold and hard and slippery was pushing at his hole.

"Thank god for posh drapes, eh?" Em said with a dark chuckle.

Arthur lifted his head, making what was no doubt an undignified noise in response to the non sequitur.

"One of the brass curtain holdbacks, from the room. That's what I'm about to put in your arse, darling. Afraid I committed a wee bit of screwdriver vandalism, but if they insist on making them look like anal hooks…"

Arthur moaned and lifted his legs in the air.

"I did sanitise it with alcohol wipes. I mean, who knows where it's been, yeah? I can’t possibly be the first one to notice the resemblance."

Em chattered on the whole while he worked the thing into Arthur's arse, pushing and pulling and cruelly using the swollen tip to milk his prostate when there wasn't much place for the result to go. It felt like fireworks. Or the beginning of fireworks—a screaming, sparkling rush towards the sky without the final _bang._

Eventually Em parked the thing in Arthur's arse, nicely nudging his prostate, and asked him to hold his legs up even higher. Then, with a shuddery breath and an, "Oh, Grompet, your backside shouldn't be _allowed,"_ he started smacking Arthur's thighs and stretched arsecheeks with the brace straps.

He began lightly, pausing between each blow, and Arthur sort of loved him for his fucking dedication to being a responsible dom and sort of _also_ wanted him to let go and smack the shit out of his arse.

Arthur took in a deep breath through his nose, bit down on Em's pants and let out the most enthusiastic noise he could manage. It was terribly unsexy—Arthur thought he sounded like a distressed sea mammal—but Em seemed to get the message. He increased the pressure and pace of his blows, and when one struck the protruding portion of the curtain thingy it jolted inside Arthur's arse, Arthur jolted in return, and Em made such a sound of awe and delight there was no chance in _hell_ Arthur was going limp or crying Mordred any time soon.

He let out several more muffled grunts and cries, finding that it heightened the pleasure of each impact.

* * *

After the spanking, Em ran his palms over the heated flesh, dropping the occasional kiss and stroking and pinching Arthur's throbbing balls. Then he applied cooling spray to his abused cheeks, disorienting Arthur enough so that he jerked when the metal hook was pulled out of his arse and briefly replaced by a warm tongue. It was only a few licks, Em's tongue flat and firm against his hole. Then Arthur felt a prod and the stretch as Em began to re-insert the syringe.

"You like being full, don't you love? Probably missing the hardware already. Don’t worry, I'm going to clean it up and pack it in your bag before we go. Fuckers, keepers, right? Now I'm going to shoot you full of more lube. Make sure you’re nice and wet before I put my cock in you. Ooh, hang on a tic."

The mattress bounced, and Arthur turned his head, instinctively trying to follow Em's movements. He could feel the heavy end of the syringe dangling from his arse and clenched against the sensation that it was sliding out.

"Ah, hello, you beauty." Em's voice was coming from Arthur's right, but he couldn’t judge the distance. He heard a slithery sound, then a faint _thunk._

"We definitely need _this."_ Em announced. A moment later he was ruffling Arthur's hair, dragging something hard and flat and— _ohfuck, my medal_ —across his lips.

"That is, unless you'd rather go back to whingeing about how you didn't _personally_ score every goal and stop every shot while curing cancer and ending world hunger, and therefor don’t deserve it?"

Arthur gave a rueful shake of his head, embarrassed by his behaviour in the dressing room earlier.

"Good," Em said smugly. "Because Master Emrys only fucks winners." He slipped the medal over Arthur's head and nestled it on his chest, right between his bound pecs.

Arthur couldn't deny that he found the idea of getting fucked while wearing his medal incredibly hot. He may have even entertained the thought of melting the thing down and turning it into something Em could fuck him _with,_ but his mouth was stuffed full of fragrant, sopping cotton-poly blend briefs, so thank goodness he couldn't betray himself by saying so.

"So." Em took a deep breath. "I'm going to unbind your balls now, else I might not be responsible for what happens to them while I fuck you. How's everything else feel? You need water?"

The only warning Arthur got that Em was going to try and remove the gag was the warmth of Em's hand on his face. He bit down stubbornly, shaking his head, and splayed his legs as wide as he could.

"No?" Em stroked Arthur's cheek, then placed a hand on his stomach, just above the tip of Arthur's cock. "Oh, pet, there are days I'm not sure what I did to deserve you, but thank fuck I'm not enough of a god-botherer to question it. Now hold very, very still."

Arthur held very, _very_ still. He was rewarded with undamaged genitals and—more importantly, which said something about his priorities, he supposed—a jelly shot's worth of lukewarm lube injected into his arse, followed swiftly by Em's cock. He penetrated Arthur in one smooth, squelchy thrust. No quarter. No hesitation. Perfect.

"Jaysusfuck fucking _fuck,"_ Em hissed as he settled in. His hands were warm and a little damp where they held Arthur's legs, just behind the knees. Slowly, inexorably he pressed them up towards Arthur's shoulders, pumping his hips in a nice, easy rhythm.

"It's wrong, I know, but I… _ngh._ Sometimes I'm glad you were such a fucked-up, scared little gay boy. That I was the first one to have you like this. Like _everything._ God, do you even know how terrified I was, that first time I saw you on my table? Never been so hot for one of my players before, never got distracted by nothing more than a pair of fucking lost-looking _eyes."_

Em gripped Arthur's legs and increased his speed, snapping his hips on the upthrust. Arthur could feel Em's balls nudging up against his arse.

"And then when I saw you in Avalon? Jaysus, I was such a mess. You can ask Freya. Spent the whole night stalking you. And then after… after you came home with me and let it slip that you actually wanted to get _fucked?"_

Panting, Em paused on an instroke, his cockhead just barely snagged inside Arthur's arse. It was maddening. Arthur whined.

"Mmm, yeah. You were all stroppy about it too," he went on, a lilt to his voice, like he was having a private joke with himself. "Then _you_ made the tea I'd offered you, didn't you, you daft creature? _And_ tried to hold my hand later. No wonder I fucking fell in love with—"

Em resumed thrusting. "Alright, fine. The whole miserable lot of them were right. I was gone on you, as of that night. Utterly. Was just too scared to admit it."

Arthur shouted into his gag, trying to point out the irony of it all, the injustice. The wasted time. Then, realising nothing was coming out but enthusiastic-sounding grunts, he decided to try and make his point with the tools to hand—namely, his arse. He pushed back against Em's hands and began rhythmically clenching his hole.

"Was panicked some hateful, soul-shrivelled geezer would get in there first, take all that shine and wreck it. But instead, you showed… you showed me that I… oh, _Arthur."_

Em let go of Arthur's thighs and slumped over, clinging to the medal ribbon for a moment before bracing himself. His breath came out in hot, ragged pants against Arthur's chest.

Arthur clamped his legs round Em's back and gave one massive squeeze, then relaxed, rubbing his feet against Em's thighs, his boots.

He felt fingers scrabbling round his mouth, working the gag loose. Before he could get a word out—before he could even swallow or try and work up some spit to chase away the stale taste in his mouth, Em had covered it with his own, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like Arthur's name mated with various profanities.

Then he pushed himself up, hooked Arthur's right leg over his shoulder, and went to town.

Arthur had to grab the headboard. His medal jounced and skidded across his chest, knocking into his bound, over sensitised nipples. Poor things never even knew what hit them. Before long he was coming, or at least his balls thought he was, twitching and tightening as Em pounded into him. His cock and thighs and nipples throbbed against their restraints. Lube dribbled out of his arse, down along his stretched crack, then _yes, that,_ Em was coming too, with shivery broken-lung gasps that were music to Arthur's ears.

* * *

If Arthur had any complaints, it was that Em allowed himself only a few moments to lie in a spent, sweaty heap before he pulled out, sucked a kiss onto the sticky tip of Arthur's cock, and set about methodically undoing his restraints.

Arthur nodded off after his cock was freed and milked of any remaining pent-up fluid. Or maybe he passed out. Either way, he woke up with his left hand in Em's lap. He was unwinding the vet wrap.

"Morning, sunshine."

Arthur smacked his lips, blinking. "Oh god, it's not, is it?"

Em shook his head. "No. Well, let's just say we've about six hours until the bus leaves. So, once I finish cleaning you up—proper bath and all—that's just over four hours' sleep. If you want to make the team breakfast, that is."

Arthur groaned and struggled up to sitting, confused for a moment by the ribbon twisted round his neck and the medal hanging down his shoulder. He righted the thing with his free hand, grinning stupidly down at it before the reality of what Em had just said sunk in.

"No, that's not on. Not even remotely. I say fuck the team breakfast and fuck the team gossip. If you go fill the tub, I'll pre-order us some room service."

"I was kind of hoping you'd say that." Em pressed a kiss to Arthur's wrist. "Hey, as long as we're being scandalous, can we order enough food for, like, five people? I could eat a horse through a sieve."

Arthur mock-pouted. "Oh, did I wear you out, Emrys? Are you a tad off your game? You know what Coach says. All you need is—"

Em yanked the cushion out from beneath his hips and swatted him with it, full in the face.

Arthur cracked open one eye to find Em looming in with a mad smile.

"Practice, practice, practice," Em whispered, punctuating each word with a soft kiss. "Aren't you lucky, being my wall dummy."

"Mmm-hmm," Arthur agreed, already daydreaming about all the kinky DIY projects in their future, but mostly about waking up in a strange team hotel bed warm and naked and—for the first time in his life—not alone. And bacon. Porridge with fruit and cream, and lots and lots of lovely bacon. After that, he thought he could face anything his teammates dished out.


	43. We Are Camelot

The city of Camelot welcomed their team back amidst a howling gale that ripped banners and brollies from unwary hands and flung the rain in slashing bands across the bus windows. It could not, however, drown out the singing. Hundreds had turned up at the airport; thousands more were waiting in the city centre and lining the route to the Citadel.

The show of support kept the bleary squad going. They joined in with their own versions of club favourites, Kay up on his knees conducting over the back of his seat.

"Look lively, you bunch of fucking scallies," Bors shouted when the volume slacked off, causing Dagonet and the other younger lads to hold their heads and whimper.

Arthur was not in the least hungover, but he was drowsy from his late night. He let his eyes drift shut, content to mumble or foot-stomp along and let Em's lusty singing, madcap lyric substitutions and all, carry their row.

They'd planned to keep a professional distance during the trip home, but the lads were having none of it, delighting in manoeuvring them together. When they hadn't reacted—not even during a barrage of crude sausage-themed puns—Kay had pronounced them dull as old paint and, with a wink to Arthur, told the squad to ignore them. Which suited them just fine.

Arthur smiled as Em set about butchering the stately "We Come Forth (Conquering Heroes)."

"That's mighty _leaps,_ you perv," he said, jostling Em's knee. "Mighty leaps and strides."

Em jostled Arthur's knee right back and, next time the chorus came round, belted out, "We come forth with mighty lips and thighs. Behold the conquering heroes!"

By the time they'd got through "Sweet Camelot" and "A Dragon's Roar Is Mighty," Arthur's stomach ached with suppressed laughter.

Em yawned his final "Raar!" as the song finished, slumping heavily against Arthur's shoulder.

A moment later he shifted restlessly, pulling away. "What's with all the mightiness anyways?"

"Eh?" Arthur cracked an eye open, wishing Em would just keep still.

"In the Camelot songs. How come everything is mighty? Size issues much?"

Arthur opened his other eye and fixed Em with what he hoped was a withering glare. "Hardly. Stop fidgeting and get back over here. I'm cold."

"Ooh, one wee medal and a raving mob and he thinks he's allowed to give the orders round here."

"Emrys, I'm not—"

Em winked, clapping a hand over Arthur's mouth. He leaned across him and peered out the window at the wet, jubilant horde. "It's all a bit brilliant, though. Isn't it?"

When he looked back at Arthur, his face was glowing with genuine enthusiasm.

Arthur nodded. He wasn't entirely certain what Em was talking about, but since, at the moment, _everything_ felt a bit brilliant… Plus it was impossible to argue with Em when he was wearing that dopey grin.

Just as suddenly as it appeared, though, Em's smile faded. He eased back into his own seat, brows sinking into a troubled vee.

"Let's hope it lasts," he muttered.

"Whoa, hey." Arthur turned, chasing the contact, and curled a hand round Em's arm. "Em?"

"Oh, don’t mind me. I'm just being… Got a touch of cold feet. And an overactive imagination." Em scrunched up his face, banging his head back against the seat. "Just envisioned that lot with pitchforks and stones, after… you know. The big reveal."

"For fuck's sake, mate. We're not bloody _monsters."_

Arthur was only taking the piss—at least that's what he'd intended, to scoff at Em's dramatics—but somehow the words came out sounding halfway earnest, almost defensive. He glanced out the window, taking in all the upraised fists and gaping mouths. Their faces were distorted by joy, but he supposed it could have just as easily been something else.

When he looked back at Em, he was grateful to find the constipated expression gone. In its place was a smirk.

"Speak for yourself," Em said, head lolling towards Arthur. "Raar. Hiss. Grumble."

"Grumble?"

Em shrugged. "Can't be in a bloodthirsty rage all the time, can I? Sometimes I've got to crush my foes with mild dissatisfaction."

And just like that they were laughing again, and Arthur wondered why he'd ever felt uneasy. They were fine. They were warm and dry and amongst friends—brothers, really—who had their backs. And as for the screaming, bouncing mass of humanity outside the bus, well, Arthur knew exactly how to keep them happy: _win._ Win and win and keep on bloody winning.

He headed into training on Tuesday with this drumbeat in his head, ready to do whatever was necessary to get his edge back, whether that meant being the permanent piggy in drills or subjecting himself to Dr. Kilgary's dubious brand of sports psychology, which involved long walks, playing Subbuteo and—true to rumour—talking through back issues of _Roy of the Rovers._

* * *

Mordred's article made a fashionably late appearance Tuesday evening, running in the _Camelot Echo_ under the sedate title, "CFC Rallies Round Gay Physio." After reading it, Arthur suspected he knew the reason for the delay. Not content with being spoon-fed, Mordred had clearly done some scrounging of his own.

"Well, he may be a shit," Arthur said, thwapping the paper down on the duvet, "but you've got to admit he's thorough."

He realised he'd been keeping to the right side of the bed, as if his brain hadn't fully processed the fact that he'd be sleeping alone until Em rang him. He shimmied over a bit and used his free hand to drag the remaining pillows into his orbit.

Arthur had reluctantly agreed to the arrangement down in London. Em, admittedly, knew more people in Arthur's building than _Arthur_ did—and that after a few months of sporadic sleepovers, as opposed to three years' residence. What with all the media attention coming Em's way, someone was bound to say the right thing to the wrong person. For the time being it was safer for him to stay at his own flat, where Arthur could still come and go without attracting much attention.

Still, it had been weird, watching Em hunting down all his woolly socks and prized ergonomic highlighters. He'd resisted the childish urge to hide them, settling, instead, for toeing Em's "I Heart Guts" T-shirt under the bed and pretending he hadn’t seen it.

_"A thorough shit, you mean?"_ Em said. Arthur heard a rustling, then the sound of taps being run. _"Of all the old photos to use—forget Mickey Mouse, I look like fucking Goofy—and he cut our duck pond story! I liked our duck pond story. This… Arthur, he's made me sound like I'm some bumpkin grateful for a chance to mop the brows of top-drawer talent because I couldn’t quite hack it between the sticks, and…"_

Arthur couldn't help smiling as Em continued his merry rant. For one thing, the article wasn't too terrible, despite the omission of the duck pond story. For another, Arthur could now tell the difference between when Em lashed out from embarrassment or insecurity versus true anger.

He'd heard all that rot about familiarity breeding contempt, but he wasn't buying it. He loved knowing these things about Em, loved fathoming every ordinary, glorious inch of him. That was why he was so keen on the whole moving in together thing—increased opportunities for fathoming. Screw investigative journalism; he wanted full immersion.

"Where'd he get all that crap about your schoolboy years anyway?" he said during a pause in the tirade. He rolled onto his side, sniffing at the pillows to find the one that Em had used last. "The 'local source.' Who—"

_"Eddie fucking Muirden, that's who. Gwaine's year. Took over from his father at the local gazette. Must be pissing himself right about now."_

"Oh?"

_"After my mum sees this, his money'll be no good at the Egg, let alone any other pub in the village,"_ Em explained. _"Number one rule: Ealdor gossip stays in Ealdor."_

"It's hardly scandalous though," Arthur countered. "I mean, condescending and kind of stalkerish, but…"

He fished around for the paper and dragged it back towards him. The cover image used Em's CFC staff photo, inset within a menacing action shot of Kanen, but the article inside featured an image from his time with the Irregulars. It was grainy, no doubt cropped and enlarged from a group shot, but there was no missing the gaudy orange and blue kit with spangly stars on the sleeves. Nor the wide, off-kilter grin and unfortunate haircut.

"So you were a bit of a fashion disaster, but show me a keeper who wasn't. At some point, I mean. Nah, I think they'll be lining up to buy you drinks at Avalon, despite Mordred's best efforts."

_"But you're dick-whipped, boyo. Totally biased. Doesn't count."_

"Ah-ah. Not so fast. According to this…" Arthur skimmed the article until he found his own name. Mordred had referred to him as Camelot's struggling striker, the spiteful fuck. "I'm a 'good mate.' As is Gwaine, and half the bloody first team. Emrys, you slut. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Em snorted. _"Hang on. I'm getting in, putting you on speaker."_

Arthur heard taps being switched off, then the sound of water sloshing, followed by a muffled groan. He imagined Em settling himself in the tub. He'd slide all the way under to wet his head, then pop up, groping for a flannel. Hopefully he wouldn’t knock his phone into the tub in the process. It had been known to happen.

When next he spoke, Em sounded much more relaxed.

_"You'll be pleased to know you and Freya are sharing brainwaves. She said that, reading between the lines, it sounds like I'm dishing out happy endings left, right and centre."_

Arthur grinned, tossing the paper aside. He burrowed down into his nest of pillows. "That's one way to boost team morale. Speaking of which, fancy a wank?"

_"Oh, very smooth, Pendragon. You trying to distract me from my questionable celebrity?"_

"Never. Just randy."

_"Shocking."_

Arthur could envision the accompanying eye roll. _"Also,_ I figure we should brush up on our phone sex any chance we get. I'm going to have a lot more travel days next season, and if you decide to stay at the academy… Come on, Emrys. Practice makes perfect."

_"Practice? Is this about your sad habit of trying to sneakily rub one off while I'm talking about mundane shit? Because I'm pretty sure I have an advanced cert in phone sex."_

Arthur flushed. "Stop trying to shame me for the stealth wanking. I know you love it, realising how desperate I get for you."

_"True."_

"But I also want—you know the talking bits that you do sometimes, the scenes you put in my head?" Arthur slid a hand down, reaching back and touching himself through the soft fabric of his pants. "I want to learn how to do that for you. What to say, and how."

There was a long pause. Arthur pulled his hand away, but no further than his waistband. He slid his thumb inside, waiting.

He could hear Em's quiet breathing and the drip of the leaky tap. Then there was a small splash. He imagined Em dropping an arm back into the water, rubbing restlessly at his thigh, maybe even grabbing his prick.

Arthur began slowly pushing his pants down. He heard Em swallow.

_"Yeah, alright. Where are you?"_

"Bed," Arthur said, thinking, _Goal!_ as he quickly finished shimmying out of his pants. "And before you ask, I'm not wearing anything. Except the duvet, I suppose."

Em burst out in a rich chuckle. " _Ooer. Off to a good start there, killer. Who could resist a man in a mid-weight eiderdown?"_

"Shit. Sorry. Do over?"

_"Here's a thought. George is on the PR warpath, insists I have to be up early for Grunhilda in the bloody AM tomorrow. So how 'bout we save the fancy stuff and just have at it? You know, insert cock in fist, conjure up a wank bank classic?"_

Arthur rolled onto his back, grinning. He drew his feet up, letting his thighs fall apart as he cupped himself. "Works for me."

He gave his balls a fond squeeze, then took hold of his shaft and started stroking. He thought of Em doing the same, cock bobbing in the warm bathwater. He could hear the faint sound of water lapping at the sides of the tub as Em's breathing quickened.

"Could you still talk though? Just… about whatever? Doesn’t have to make sense."

_"Hmm… ah, okay. Would you like to know what's in my shampoo?"_

Arthur huffed out a laugh. "Sure."

_"Aqua—that's water to you, mister. Sodium myristoyl something. Cocamidopropyl hydroxyl… ngh. Um. Where was I? Polysorbate twenty, that sounds tasty. Thymus vulgaris, mentha spicata, and—ooh, lots of herby things. Herby oils. Cruelty free. No bunnies, thank fuck. Can't stand bunnies in my shampoo. Wet head and massage… massage vigorously?_ "

Arthur heard a throaty laugh.

_"Got that covered, I think. Jaysusfucking yes. Now, uh… rinse well and repeat as necessary. Excellent plan, will do. Arthur, I think this shampoo is… Arthur, it wants… oh, fuckyeah, that's… gah!"_

There was a heavy splash. Em grunted, then let out a long, shaky sigh. Arthur planted his feet and thrust up, giving his cock a few final, frantic tugs.

"I'm close," he panted. "Em…"

_"Come on then, darling man. Let me hear it."_

Arthur imagined Em slumped back in the bath, lips slack, chest and shoulders heaving. Totally wrecked on just… just this. If Arthur were there he would carry him to the poky little bed, clamber on top of him and push between his damp thighs. Not worrying about angles or prostates or pacing, just getting back to the basics of skin on skin. Desire and friction. Kissing like they were trying to steal one another's air.

With a long, low groan, Arthur came all over his stomach.

_"Mmm, that sounded nice."_

Arthur hummed in agreement, hand still moving lazily at the base of his shaft. He drifted for a while, content, until Em's yawn reminded him he was still on the phone.

_"Right then."_ Em yawned again. _"I'm off. Sleep well."_

"You too, mate. Best of luck with Grunhilda. Try not to charm anyone's pants off."

* * *

Uther wasn't terribly impressed with the article—he'd expected a pure puff piece, not this sly, suggestive thing that praised Camelot's "enlightened" stance with tongue firmly lodged in cheek—but there wasn't much he could do about it. There were glaring omissions, but no outright lies (apart from the ones they'd invented themselves), and Arthur had given the green light.

Besides, as Arthur was quick to point out, the larger narrative was now out of their hands. Mordred was hardly the only one who'd noticed how eager the club—and the league—were to congratulate themselves on their handling of the Kanen incident, yet a three-match ban and a £5000 fine were a slap on the wrist to a man like that. And if clubs like Camelot openly embraced gay staff, why were there still no players coming forward?

"We did try and warn you," Arthur said when his father complained that Mordred was trying to hang them with their own words. "But overall Em and the club come up smelling of roses, and he didn’t out me. So you got what you wanted, didn't you?"

_For now_ he thought, but didn't add.

Uther was even less impressed upon hearing about Arthur's big announcement at Wembley—to the point of turning up at Knightswood mid-day and hauling people into the boardroom.

As Leon later told Arthur, "So Percy and I get done with our 'No sir, none sir' routine, and Coach just stands there giving the old man the fucking eyebrow, the _eyebrow,_ Wart. Then he says, 'And if there _were_ any trouble in the dressing room, Mister Pendragon, I trust these lads to sort it. Aren't you due over at the trophy installation, by the way?' "

Which, as they all agreed, was Coach's way of respectfully suggesting that the way he ran his dressing room was none of Uther's fucking business.

Coach said nothing about it to Arthur. He studiously ignored the increased media presence round Knightswood, urged the squad to do the same, and ran every practice himself. His expression rarely shifted, but Arthur could tell he was watching and listening, alert for any sign of dissent. Arthur did the only thing he could do: he got stuck in and worked his arse off.

At the end of the week, before Friday's press conference, Coach assembled the squad and senior staff in the war room. After an eyebrow jig and a bout of throat-clearing, he announced, "Men of my generation are always banging on about how football isn't what it used to be—too much money, no soul—but I say that's bollocks, and you lot right here are my proof. I could not be prouder if you were my own sons.

"Now, my door is always open, as is Dr. Kilgary's, should you have any questions or concerns about recent events, but right now all I fucking care about is outwitting Cornwall on Saturday."

He took his time, as was his custom, letting the words sink in as he looked each man in the eye.

"And for the next twenty-four, that's all I want you lot to care about as well. Some sweaty hack shoves his mic in your face and asks about fatigue or distractions or your views on world peace, you smile and tell him we fancy our chances with the new formation. Got that? Then you go home, you get a good night's rest, and you come out tomorrow like the fucking champions you are. We are Camelot, gentlemen, and the Citadel is _ours."_

Arthur shouted, "For Camelot!" along with the rest, sneaking a glance round the room. It was good—more freeing than he had ever expected—not having to hide who he was at Knightswood, but it was also… complicated.

For every easy-going Gwaine or Elyan there was an awkward Lemmie, who seemed to think he was no longer allowed to tease Em in Arthur's hearing, or an inappropriate Dagonet, who delighted in quizzing him on who had the fittest this or the biggest that on such-and-such a team, as if Arthur had spent his lonely, gruelling loan spells happily cruising the showers.

A few of the younger lads wondered how Arthur could let his man "piss about on the telly like that, with all them queer blokes" while he remained in the shadows, while Percy fretted over Em's personal safety and couldn't fathom why Arthur would _ever_ willingly reveal "that side of things" to the public.

As if he were going to turn up on _Graham Norton_ with diagrams of their preferred positions or something.

Then there was Kay who, like the lovable, insane Bond villain that he was, dreamed up hare-brained coming-out schemes in the club bar. Arthur's favourite was the one that involved flashing Under Armour printed with "THIS GOAL BROUGHT TO YOU BY A GAY" every time he scored and seeing if the home fans dared to boo him, not to mention how the refs would handle it.

Probably didn’t matter, as Coach would murder him regardless, but it was a bit genius.

Whatever their personal opinions, though, the squad hung together in the face of the media, and in the face of Cornwall. They didn't give an inch, not even when baited, and all Arthur could do at the final whistle was collapse on the pitch in a daze of relief, listening to the wild thumpings of his heart.

He hadn’t scored, but he'd had corker of a game. He'd been a constant menace in Cornwall's area, running his markers ragged to the point one of them had offered Arthur a hundred quid if he'd just stay fucking put for five minutes and let him catch his breath. He'd had two shots on, several more just shy, and it was his passes that Elyan and Gaheris had slotted home.

He'd hung back from the goal celebrations at first, uncertain, but the lads had mobbed him on every occasion, Elyan wrapping him up in a bear hug and slapping his head and Gaheris leaping on his back, nearly strangling him in his enthusiasm. And through it all there was Em on the touchline, chin held high, ignoring all the catcalls and stares and, as Elena was officially taking point, unashamedly watching Arthur.

It gave him a hot thrill, made him wish that _this,_ this right now was the last match of the season, and that he finally dared to do what he'd been wanting to do for months. Then he was crushed under several bodies' worth of sweaty armpits and bony knees, and the moment was lost.

"One at a time lads," he groaned, shoving at a meaty forearm. "And for fuck's sake at least offer to buy me a drink first."


	44. Keep Away

After a fortnight of George booking Em on chat shows and pimping him out to sympathetic Lib Dem bastions like the _Guardian_ and the _Albion Herald,_ Em put his foot down.

"Unless it's about my job or legitimate social issues, I'm not doing it," he declared. "The world should not care what I think of Beckham's hair—even _I_ don’t care what I think of Beckham's hair—and I love the _Fiver_ and all, but for fuck's sake who thinks that gags about groin massage are still funny?"

Arthur wisely refrained from pointing out that groin massage gags would _always_ be funny, and that Em had been known to indulge in them himself, from time to time.

George didn't have much excuse to prolong the torture, given the pace of turnover in the mainstream news cycle. However, the LGBT community at large had definitely noticed Em, and they weren't giving him up. Throughout March he received a steady trickle of requests to do interviews, charity gigs and… well, things that made groin massage gags seem the height of innocence.

Em got his own TMI fan mail now. He balked at opening it, gladly turning it over to Arthur and his insatiable curiosity. Arthur browsed, cherry-picked the best bits and saved them up for their nightly phone conversations. If Em sounded jaded or tetchy, Arthur went with the sweet stuff, the thank yous and inspired confessionals; otherwise he stuck with the nutters and their filthy innuendo. Mostly they laughed over it, but on a couple of memorable occasions Em _hadn't._ Instead, he'd gone quiet for a moment before asking, with a little hitch in his breath, for Arthur to read something again—not taking the piss out of it, but like it was real. Like that was what _Arthur_ wanted Em to do to him. Or for him.

_"Go on, mate, tell me that story,"_ he'd say, low and rough. _"Just for tonight. I won't hold you to it in the morning."_

So, thanks in part to the nutters and their filthy innuendo, Arthur began to learn more about Em's fantasies. He also learned the important difference between the ones Em _actually_ wanted to try on their rare mutual days off, and the ones that were just exotic wank fodder. For example, Em definitely got off on scenarios of desperation and hunger, of men who couldn't help themselves and wanted him in spite of various obstacles, but he did not really want Arthur crying at his feet, begging to lick his boots.

_"If you were a stranger who approached me at a club, maybe,"_ Em had explained. _"But I know you too well, and that's not really what you need. Restraint, discipline, being objectified—yes. But not humiliation."_

By the end of the month, Arthur thought he was well on his way to his own advanced cert in phone sex. Not to mention self-gratification. He hadn't wanked this much in recent memory since October, when he'd thought Em would never look at him as more than a job or some gay charity case. It was miles better than the bleak pre-Em years though, so Arthur manned up, kept his whingeing to a minimum, and channelled any pent-up frustrations into his football.

* * *

They were still lacking another out-and-out striker of Arthur's calibre, but, as Gaheris had impressed well enough out on the right wing, Coach was trying an experiment. He'd moved Gwaine in behind Arthur, playing him like a centre forward, except with an emphasis on holding and providing through balls for Arthur and Elyan to race onto.

It took Gwaine and Arthur several (very tense, very vocal) training sessions to make the adjustment—Elyan joked that it was bit like watching a tiger and a lion, both used to having the run of their territories, penned up in the same cage—but once they did, it was like they'd found the magic fucking key. Defences unlocked before them, and suddenly Arthur was back to scoring goals. _Goals,_ plural.

He became a regional hero (or villain, according to the Mercian supporters) when he put two past them in their league match at Hidgate Road on a Saturday only to turn around and score a last-gasp winner against them in the FA Cup quarter-final on Tuesday, securing Camelot's advancement and perhaps the greatest derby bragging rights in recent memory.

When Wessex visited the Citadel the following week, they were treated to a repeat of the autumn rout they'd suffered at St. Jude's, except this time Arthur _did_ get his hat trick (and another blowjob, but four hours later at Em's flat, rather than a spontaneous one in the showers, damn all the inconvenient eyes).

The best part—of the hat trick, not the blowjob—was that he'd headed the second goal home off a corner, going for it without an ounce of fear or hesitation. It was the first time he'd done so in a competitive match since the injury, so maybe Kilgary knew what he was doing after all. Arthur bid a ridiculous amount of money online for an old Melchester Rovers lightweight team, still in its original box, and left it on the man's desk.

By the last week of March, Arthur was back in the running for the Golden Boot, right up there with Myror, Ravi and Derian, Caerleon's massive centre forward. Thrilled with his success, or "frisson factor," as they called it, Excalibur moved up the launch date for the new ad campaign. Suddenly, Arthur's gleaming, airbrushed jawline and bare torso (and a whole lot more besides) were absolutely _everywhere,_ on the telly, in magazines, and looming along the M1.

After that, his excuses about still needing to focus on his recovery were well and truly shafted. There was no avoiding the media swarm, nor what followed in their wake: chancers with cameras and aspiring wags.

After being snapped having an early morning coffee with Gwen and seeing the outrageous headlines they inspired, Arthur wondered if he should consider taking up Viv's standing offer to provide beard services. She'd told Morgana that she was between footballers at the moment (quite literally, but she was growing bored with both).

As the Spring Charity Melee loomed, he discussed it with Em, but in the end they decided it smacked too much of giving in to the Uthers and the Hectors of the world. Until Arthur came out, they might have to duck and avoid and commit numerous lies of omission, but they agreed never to pretend to be involved with other people.

_"I'll be emotionally unavailable following a bad breakup and incredibly busy with work,"_ Em announced.

"And clearly I've just not met the right woman," Arthur said. "Say, do you think we could... well, what if we just turned up together? You know, two sad bachelors sharing a limo? We are supposed to be mates and all."

There was a pause, then Em chortled. _"Let's totally do it. Melee's on the first, mate. April Fool's, and fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."_

"Shit, you're right." The kitchen timer went. Arthur grabbed up a pot holder—one of Freya's, now a bit singed on one corner—and retrieved his solitary portion of salmon. "I didn't mean it like that though."

_"I know."_

"So..."

_"It's a date. Of sorts."_

"Of sorts," Arthur agreed, sighing. He wondered whether he could convince Em to stay on the phone and entertain him while he ate, or if it was going to be another fabulous night of talking back to the telly.

* * *

"This is profoundly fucking unfair," Gwaine said, clawing his collar open. He'd already shed his jacket and torn off his bowtie, and they were only ten minutes into the speeches.

Arthur sort of hoped he'd keep going; at this rate he'd be down to his socks well before the silent auction began, and that could only be an improvement on the proceedings. The club's Spring Charity Melee was, unfortunately, nowhere near as exciting as its title suggested.

"Hmm?" he said absently, reaching for his water glass. Up on the dais, poor Em looked like he was melting under the stage lights, squished between Geoffrey's fidgety elbows and some fresh-faced lad from Marketing. Dr. Kilgary was at the podium, rambling on about Camelot's long association with Five Kingdoms Animal Rescue.

"The only reason I came to this thing is because El promised me there'd be a stunning array of cougar flesh, but they're all giving me the brush-off. You, on the other hand—"

Gwaine blew out a frustrated breath. He nudged Arthur's arm, indicating the nearby tables full of women who'd drifted over as soon as Arthur and Em had sat down.

They would have been sitting _with_ Arthur now if Gwaine and Elena hadn't swooped in, for which he was profoundly grateful. The ginger with the pixie cut had bold eyes and sharp-looking nails. She also seemed intent on showing off how little she had on beneath her dress.

"Like big red there," Gwaine whispered, leaning in. "Went all coy on me earlier, but she's practically flinging her knickers in your face. Or she would do, if she were even wear— "

_"Gwaine,"_ Arthur muttered, trying to avoid the ginger's hungry gaze. Freya claimed vaginas could sense when you were talking about them.

"Right. Anyways, why isn't she after me?"

"Maybe it's because you arrived with a date? Who's looking quite fit, by the way." Arthur nodded towards the dais, where Elena was rocking an eye-popping gold jumpsuit. "You know, if she had wings and a birdbath on her head, she'd be a ringer for the old Jules Rimet."

Gwaine chuckled under his breath. "It's not a date though," he protested. "We're just mates. And you're one to talk, Princess. Your tie is coordinated with his fucking shirt—don't think we didn't notice—and I know he bought you those cufflinks."

"Yeah, but..." Arthur caught Gwaine's eye and shrugged. "I'm the modern alpha male, so secure in my own rampant heterosexuality, I've no problem squiring my tragically single gay mate round town. Makes me irresistible. Then there's the... er, Excalibur thing."

Much of Arthur's fan mail had taken on a distinctly sweaty, desperate edge since the first of the new razor adverts had aired, and all night long women had been copping feels of his face. Which was just weird.

"See, I just don't get that." Gwaine reached for his wineglass, scowling when he saw it was empty.

"One," he went on, "those adverts are so gay it's a wonder they don’t show actual cocksucking. Seriously, mate. That thing where you're splashing water on your face, with your mouth open? Whatever happened to having a half-naked bird nuzzling your chin?"

"Different concept, I guess," Arthur said, smirking.

He hadn't told anyone but Em that, for several of the takes, they'd actually strewn the bedroom set with two dinner suits, as if Arthur had just come from a conquest. The director had explained to Arthur that he'd been asked to shoot for various demographics, and to let him know if anything made him uncomfortable.

Quite to the contrary, Arthur had enjoyed himself—not the endless standing around in a dressing gown and all those fucking pails of water, which, no matter what anyone said, had _not_ been warm—but the thrill of being part of something that evoked his own brand of desire, however subtly. In the final cut, you couldn’t even distinguish the suits—they appeared only as blurry smudges in a brief background shot—but Arthur knew they were there.

"Whatever. It's _gay."_ Gwaine snagged his water glass and drained it. "Two, you're not his only mate. I do stuff with him—in fact, I was with him at the Armoury when he bought that shirt—but am I getting any offers? No. And I actually _am_ secure in my rampant heterosexuality."

"Yeah, but you're a well-known cad." Arthur lifted his full wineglass and set it within Gwaine's reach. "Go on. I'm not having it. Doctor's orders."

Arthur was still on pain meds, nursing a stiff lower back from Saturday's draw at Western Isles. It had become quite the heated rivalry but, thanks in part to a heavy police presence and pleas from both clubs to their supporters, all the physical clashes had remained on the pitch and legal. Mostly. Arthur had a boot-shaped bruise on his back that begged to differ.

"You wound me, Princess," Gwaine said, taking an appreciative sip. "A cad implies dishonesty, yes? I may be a merry old slut, but I've never tried to pretend otherwise."

The room burst into applause as Dr. Kilgary finally stepped away from the podium.

Inexplicably, Gwaine winced. Then he mouthed, "Shit, sorry," and Arthur realised that he thought his remarks had struck home.

_Fair enough,_ Arthur thought, looking down at his lap. He'd outlined his and Em's plans to his closest mates on the squad and they, more than anyone, appreciated his reasons for wanting to wait until the end of the season, but sometimes, with Gwaine, Arthur thought he caught a whiff of impatience on Em's behalf. Or perhaps he was merely seeing his own frustrations mirrored back.

_After all,_ he thought, as the ginger dropped her napkin on the floor and set about ensuring a major wardrobe malfunction during its retrieval, _it would be nice if I didn’t have to spend the evening fending off the champagne set while that twink from Marketing makes cow eyes at my boyfriend._

Elena was up next though, and it was hard to stay in a bad mood in the face of all that shimmering energy. She strode up to the podium and, with an infectious grin, barrelled through her presentation on a local after school programme promoting women in football.

"That's my girl," Gwaine murmured, giving a loud wolf-whistle as she finished. Several of the women nearby gave him the side-eye, but Elena only laughed and waved vigorously at their table.

"By the way, L'Oréal's Orkney there did volunteer his time and expertise," Elena said, leaning back in towards the mic, "but we had to turn him away. Told him we're well sorted for wall dummies."

Arthur snorted, nearly huffing water up his nose. "Are you sure about that 'just mates' thing? Awful lot of hair-pulling going on these days. Even Percy's noticed. Said he hoped the new physio they're bringing in will be old, married, and preferably hideous. For all our sakes."

Gwaine undid another shirt button and leaned back, rocking his chair onto two legs. "Well now. I never said we weren't the kind of mates who occasionally get together for a shag and a pizza."

"Ha!" Arthur crowed, punching Gwaine's shoulder. "Knew it."

"Oh shut yer gob. And look lively, Princess, here's your fella."

Em looked dashing in his new blue shirt; the shade really suited him, as did the tailored fit. He whispered something to Elena as they passed one another that had her smirking all the way back to her seat. He stepped up to the podium with a shy smile, peering out into the banquet hall, and paused.

And waited…

Just as the crowd began to shift and mutter, wondering what was going on, Em put on one of his killer pouts. "What," he said, "don't I get one of those, Gwaine? For old time's sake?"

The hall roared with laughter. There was a cacophony of whistles as people responded to Em's request. Gwaine nearly toppled over backwards. When he recovered, he stood and gave a cheeky two-fingered salute before joining in.

Em grinned, bright and mischievous—he even laughed a little at his own joke, which should have been tragic, but wasn't—and clutched the sides of the podium.

_Fuck,_ Arthur thought. _He could ask them for anything right now—diamonds, children, vital organs—and they'd give it willingly._

As if Gwaine could read Arthur's mind, he leaned down and said, "That Georgie's created a fucking monster, eh?"

Arthur tugged him back down, willing the entire room to shut the fuck up and let Em get on with his presentation on academy scholarships. The sooner they did that, the sooner the fucking speeches would be over and Arthur could drag Em off to the loos for some dangerous living.

He wanted to tell him how his shirt exactly matched the blue of his eyes—which made it entirely forgivable that he'd chosen Mercian colours—and that he shouldn’t try to anchor his hands to the podium, because they were part of his voice somehow. But mostly he wanted the reassurance of touch, the up-close scents and textures. He wanted Em's shirt untucked and flies undone, and he wanted to be crouched there before him, throat stuffed full of warm cock, all of his other aches and pains forgotten for a few blissful minutes of connection.

A single, sharp whistle pierced Arthur's fantasy. Annoyed, he swivelled round, looking for its source. Most of the crowd had settled down and were now sipping their wine, looking relaxed and amused as Em coaxed a trio of shy, gangling youths onto the dais.

But there, at the very back of the hall, was Mordred. He was lounging amidst a knot of local press looking, not up at the podium, but at Arthur. He lowered his fingers from his lips and smiled. Arthur felt the chill of it down to the tips of his toes.

Only for a moment though. Then he was filled with a burning, impotent rage, and it was only for Em's sake that he didn't grab the nearest thing to hand—a half-eaten dish of rhubarb crumble, incidentally—walk over, and smash it in Mordred's face.

Arthur knew that, deal or no, there could be no cocksucking, no sneaking off for a snog or a private embrace while that twat was about. He'd simply tip off one of the others, and then not only would Arthur be outed, but Em and the academy—the club's very role within the community—would be compromised. Arthur could well imagine the gist of the headlines: "Fools' Gag! CFC Physio Caught Cottaging at Charity Melee, and You'll Never Guess Who He Pulled!!!"

_Godfuckingdammit!_ As he mutinously ate the rest of his pudding, Arthur wondered if it was too late to take up leek farming after all.

* * *

He tried talking about it to Freya the following Monday. Or rather, first he tried telling her all about Sunday's match, and how he'd tried imagining the ball was Mordred's head, which had worked a treat right up until he'd inadvertently blocked it with his groin, rendering the comparison disturbing. It was only after she'd given him a blank stare that he'd held up the jar of Branston Pickle he'd been contemplating for the past five minutes.

"Do you know if you can do anything like this with leeks, turn it into a year-round thing? Or do they only work as a fresh crop? I'm thinking leek farmers can cop off wherever they want. No fame; no paps crawling round the fields. They're probably out there right now, shagging like rabbits. Amongst the leeks."

Freya didn’t so much as blink at Arthur's outburst, merely unwound her scarf and slung her bag onto the breakfast bar.

Of course, the only reason he was babbling to her at _all_ was because he was still on a bit of a high—he'd bagged his 20th league goal up in Cumbria, then driven directly to the corn exchange for a much-needed night in Em's arms—and there was no one else around to listen. Em had taken the early train into Camelot for meetings, Will was in Japan, and Gwen was off touring swarms of school children round Roman ruins.

At least Freya's salon was nearby, which meant she often stopped home for lunch when business was slow.

"Oh, Sporty," she said at last, eyeing the mess Arthur had made of the kitchen. "Has it come to this?"

It looked, admittedly, like a picnic had exploded. Several picnics. After an alarming encounter with some mouldy jam at breakfast, Arthur had spent the morning scouring the kitchen for products near or past their expiry dates. The latter had gone into the bin, the former into a growing pile of sandwiches.

"I need the loo, but I'm starving. Can you do me something without too much veg in it—nor botulism, preferably? Cheers."

When she returned, Freya grabbed the plate of sandwiches out of Arthur's hands and headed straight for the sofa. "And here I was worried about Em being the dirty little secret."

"But that's the thing, I'm _not,"_ Arthur insisted, trailing after her with glasses and a bottle of water. Freya's latest hairdo consisted of a single thick plait that curled down round her ear. The rest was a couple centimetres' worth of lush dark fuzz that Arthur had been warned not to mess with. Which meant he really, really wanted to.

"Or, yes, I am, but not like—" Arthur stood hesitantly for a moment before Freya sighed, shifted her legs, and motioned for Arthur to sit beside her. They'd never discussed their mutual attachment to the old brown sofa, but it was a known _thing_ between them. Sometimes Freya defended her territory, but other times, like today, she took pity on him.

"I've actually spent more time with him out in public than ever before," Arthur went on as he set the drinks down and claimed his seat. "It's just we're never alone much. Always with the lads, or my sister and her mates." Arthur reached for a sandwich. "Everyone assumes I'm straight, and we don't act like an obvious couple, so blokes who recognise him keep chatting him up and—"

"And you have to settle for phone sex or sneaking off for quick handjobs in the bogs like a couple of teenagers? Oh, sweetie, you are _exactly_ that." Freya grabbed the curry chicken mayonnaise before Arthur could, but she offered him the lone cheese and pickle.

"No sweat though. I think it's all to the good," she said between bites. "I know I keep bitching about him becoming an A-gay, but that's only on principle. With your job, that's the fucking reality, yeah? And he's needed this time to get used to it, find his own public face before he becomes known mainly as your better half."

Arthur paused mid-bite, staring at Freya in wonder. He hadn’t thought of it like that. When he and Em had talked it over, the delay in his own coming out had had more to do with assorted compromises and the football calendar.

If possible—if there were no loose lips, if they were careful about when and where they were seen together—the plan was for Mordred to publish Arthur's coming-out piece after their last match, whether that be up at the Ridings or, if they could get past Jarl's men in the semi, down in London for the FA Cup final. That way any negative public reaction wouldn’t immediately impact the team as a whole, and he and Em could scarper away on their holiday until the furore died down.

But… Freya was right; she was _absolutely_ right. Arthur felt an arse for not seeing it before.

Freya rolled her eyes and groaned. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Sporty. We're talking basics of male ego here. It's hardly rocket science."

"But—"

"Nope. Done with this topic," she said, shoving his sandwich back in his mouth. "Now we need to talk wags. Helen and I want full access. Can't you convince Em to stop acting so butch and at least give them a go?"

Arthur choked a little. Freya poured him out a measure of water and pushed it within reach.

"Gwen's no help, claims they're all about designer handbags and full Brazilians, but I say there's some real potential there. They have to be into the idea of lady chauffeurs and independent, lezzy-owned salons, or else what were the Spice Girls fucking _for,_ am I right?"

Arthur felt a sudden rush of fondness for Freya, finally _getting_ why she and Em were such close mates, despite their differences. As soon as he finished chewing and swallowing, he took a big gulp of water.

"I think the universe demands that you and my sister get pissed together, just to see what will happen. Em's told you about date night, right? You need to come to date night. Bring Helen."

Freya pulled a face. "I thought that was a squad thing—excuse me, a _straight_ squad thing."

"Currently being held in my very gay kitchen, thanks very much. C'mon, come say hello to your pot holders."

Arthur gave in to the urge he'd had ever since Freya had walked in. He leaned in and gave her head a thorough going-over with the palm of his hand. "Look, fuzzy. I'm giving you an in here. As well as being a wag, my sister is a well-connected businesswoman. Suffers no fools, but queer- and kink-friendly, and her cocktails kill you only a little, in the nicest of ways."

Freya jerked away, wide-eyed, then burst out laughing. "Did you just… you did, didn't you? Oh my fucking god. I might have to keep you, even after Em ditches you for a shinier model."

"Not gonna happen," Arthur said, snatching the last sandwich from the plate. "I have it on good authority that I'm the shiniest, and monogamy is no longer considered a gay crime."

"Why do lesbians always get the blame for this kind of shit?" Freya muttered. But her subsequent smile was genuine, as was the one on Em's face when he walked in to find them lounging top to tail on the sofa, watching repeats of _The Bill._

"You didn't drug him, did you, pet?" he said, eyeing the various plates and glasses on the coffee table.

"Please," Freya yawned. "Give him some credit, Em. He fed and bribed me before going for the hair, which means he's smarter than he looks."

"Oh, he looks pretty smart to me," Em said, shooting Arthur a look that maybe meant "explain" but definitely demanded "bedroom, _now."_

Last night they'd been too exhausted to do anything more than strip off and cling to one another in the narrow bed. Em had promised to make it up to him, then they were driving to Leon and Gwaine's to spend the night—all so they could play musical cars before rolling up at Knightswood on Tuesday.

Arthur knew that they couldn’t be too cautious with Mordred lurking about. Nevertheless, he thought the whole thing was getting tiresome and really fucking complicated. Even if it had been his own damn plan in the first place.

"Hey, do _you_ know if leeks can be pickled?" Arthur asked as Em grabbed the drawstring on his shorts and pulled him down the hall. From the living room, Freya snorted with laughter.

Em gave Arthur a bemused look as he shouldered his door open.

"Is this relevant to the sex we're about to be having?"

Arthur pretended to think about it. "No. But it is relevant to our overall sex life… well, it _might_ be."

Em's eyebrows shot up. "I see. Well, next time I ring my mam I'll have her ask Callie, alright?"

Arthur nodded. "You do that. It's always good to have options."

"Er, right." Em backed into his room, pulling Arthur along until he cleared the door, then pointing him towards the bed. "I don't know if it's the mouldy jam or too much time spent with Freya, but you seem in an odd verbal place right now, and I've had a shite fucking day. Can this be one of the times where you shut up and let me take care of you?"

Arthur nodded as he pulled off his shirt. "Can I just say one thing first?"

"Of course." Em looked up from unbuckling his belt.

"I love you, Emmett, and I can’t wait until you come home to me every day, or I come home to you, except when I'm travelling, of course, not that you won't be travelling too, but—"

In two steps Em was in front of Arthur, enfolding him in his arms and pushing him down on the bed. "Oh, ssh," he said, pressing his fingers to Arthur's lips. He kissed his cheek, then nuzzled into the hair at his temple.

"I think that was more than one thing," he whispered. "But as I happen to agree with you, I'll let it go.

"Now, just relax while I get my gear off. Watch me, alright? I know you like that."

_Love you,_ Arthur thought helplessly, watching Em shuck his khakis, jumper and club polo, pausing to hang each article over the chair. _Love you I love you and I'm afraid I can't wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **A very ~~strange~~ lovely illustration of something that definitely never happened (except in Arthur's cheese and pickle-induced dreams) by [Mizufae.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizufae/pseuds/Mizufae) **
> 
>  [ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/730009)
> 
>  
> 
>  In Arthur's alterna-leek universe, he is a 'King Richard' variety, noted for "remarkable earliness and length," while Merlin is a 'Tadorna Blue,' a "vigorous grower" (ahem).


	45. Mind Games

In Camelot, April meant spring stopped pissing people about and finally got down to business. Temperatures crept up into the teens, the hedgehogs were stirring in the parks, and daffodils practically flung themselves at passers-by. This year, though, there was an added aura of possibility hovering over the city, emanating from the Citadel. It seemed the Golden Dragons had forgotten how to lose.

Arthur felt almost sorry for the Marshlands supporters who'd travelled up from Five Ports. It was a five-hour journey, even at the best of times, and all they'd received for their trouble was a solid 3-0 drubbing in what was, from Camelot's perspective, merely a warm-up for the FA Cup semi-final against Escetia the following weekend.

It probably hadn't helped that their mascot, an actual Romney sheep, got loose and made a beeline for their keeper during the coin toss. It had taken several hilarious minutes to subdue the animal, the home crowd chanting "Olé!" each time she wheeled round to pursue her scrambling quarry. There had been a merry debate at the half over the ewe's motives, devolving—inevitably—into a series of sheep-shagging jokes. Geraint and Lemmie knew a _lot_ of sheep-shagging jokes.

The lovelier the weather and the better the results, though, the more Arthur resented the strictures he'd placed on his personal life. Muscles atrophied when they weren't used, every athlete knew that. Speed ebbed; skills grew rusty; new habits replaced the old. Somewhere in the shuffle of the seasons, he'd lost his knack for easily segregating the various parts of his life, lost his tolerance for hiding, for keeping his mouth shut and his hands to himself.

_Because I shouldn’t have to,_ he corrected every time he saw Tristan lounging with his head in Issie's lap or Bors kissing his wife goodbye in the car park. Every time he remembered that couple at The Kitchens, who had been doing nothing more revolutionary than having dinner together, and had still managed to slay him with then-unimaginable possibilities.

_And because someone needs to tell you lot to go fuck yourselves,_ he added every time he heard some stuffed suit or crusty player-turned-pundit spouting off to Sky or the foreign press that there were no gays in football, how could there be, because it was a proper man's sport (and that even if—incredibly—a few of them _had_ snuck in, it'd be suicide to ever come out).

He now felt like he was burning from the inside out from the effort of keeping himself in check. The emotions that threatened him were so overwhelming, so potentially disruptive. He lived every day in the fear that he would lose control of them out on the pitch—that he would run until his muscles seized up and yell until his lungs burst. That he would jump and slash and lunge, kick and twist and dive, commit a career-ending act of violence or an equally career-ending act of love.

He could see it, had imagined it many times.

He'd disentangle himself from the post-goal manpile and sprint to the touchline, seeking out the one bright face that eclipsed all the others in a sea of Camelot red. He'd grab him by the horrid floppy collar of his tracksuit top and haul him in 'til they were pressed together, top to toe. Then he would kiss him—kiss him with tongue and teeth and all—while the stands rocked with the sounds of victory. He would dare the fuckers to stop cheering.

* * *

In his passion, Arthur grew restless. Grew careless, too, especially at Knightswood. He got away with it around the squad, because they knew—and cheeky banter and copious amounts of physical contact more or less went with the job description—but he had to watch his pronouns around the press, and he'd nearly called Em "gorgeous" in front of a group of visiting physiotherapy students.

The Friday before the squad travelled to London for the semi-final, Catrina actually accused Arthur of _bullying_ Em. They'd been jostling one another in the canteen after lunch as they queued to drop off their trays. Catrina had overheard them trading their own special brand of insults, and it wasn't like Arthur could announce, in front of the entire crowd, that "kicking his teeth in" meant he wanted to drag Em off for a snog.

He'd listened with clenched jaw and flaming cheeks as Catrina—brandishing a gleaming pair of kitchen tongs—lectured him on how Em couldn't help the way he was born, and just because women the length and breadth of Britain were swooning over Arthur's adverts didn't mean his teeth were all that much of a prize either.

"You might have said something," Arthur hissed once she'd disappeared into the clouds of steam swirling over the pasta station. "Or at least stowed the puppy face."

"Nah." Em shook his head, looking terribly pleased with himself. Catrina had plied him with a small selection of biscuits (the proper sugary, empty calorie kind) and a single, perfect strawberry from god-knew-where. He popped the latter in his mouth and chewed with pornographic enthusiasm.

"I'm totally in now," he said after swallowing. "Extra sauce, the mushiest peas, access to the upper management biscuit tin… Should have played the poor wee gay card _ages_ ago."

"You're despicable, Emrys. I hope she tries to fix you up with her creepy nephew Jonas."

"Ooh, the one with the tail? Gwaine told me about him. I've always fancied meeting a bloke with a tail. It's an extremely rare anomaly, you know, and usually they don't— _mph."_

Arthur grabbed up a biscuit and stuffed it in Em's mouth. "Enjoy, traitor. I'm off to my shirt signing. You've a ride to the station?"

Em nodded, still jawing away at his forced mouthful of Bourbon cream. He held his arms out in front, mimed revving a motorbike, and tossed his head in slow motion.

Arthur looked down. "Right then. Speak to you later." He _hated_ this part, the casual goodbyes that occurred whenever and wherever they crossed paths at Knightswood.

* * *

He spent the afternoon signing replica shirts that would be auctioned off to people he would likely never meet, then posing for photographs with desperately ill children who were a thousand times braver than he would ever be, and liked him purely because he was good enough at running and kicking a ball at the same time to get himself on the telly.

He spent the evening hunting down old links from Gwen—re-reading the happy stories about people who went to work and pub and Sunday league and paid their fucking taxes and didn't wind up penniless, depressive alcoholics or fished out of canals with suspicious injuries—and clicking through estate agents' websites.

He'd gone back to thinking they'd be better off in a house, away from anonymous neighbours and building staff who could be bribed for gossip. Somewhere with a proper library for Em's books and a garden for the dog to dig up. Not that they even had a dog—not that Arthur had _ever_ had a dog—but he'd always wanted one as a child, and Leon's bitch was due to whelp in May.

When Em rang, Arthur was happy to hear his voice, but at first he couldn’t seem to muster up much more than monosyllables and sighs as he moused through virtual floor plans. Some even had virtual pot plants and goldfish and garden views visible through the windows. Camelot was always sunny online. The grass seemed so much greener.

_"Cancer kids, just one of those days, or are you actually in a strop about Catrina? Because you're totally still her favourite; I'm just a pity project."_

"Dammit, Em, I'm looking _forward_ to the early morning charter tomorrow, and do you know why? Because it's a chance to sleep next to you, even with clothing and seatbelts and shit in the way and some flight attendant trying to get a leg over. How fucking pathetic is that?"

_"Ah. Well into sad bastard territory, I'd say."_ After a pause, he added, _"Remember though, we've got Monday morning and all of Wednesday. Fancy taking a picnic and bothering Gwen on the job? She's out at Fyrien Castle this week, something to do with mortar restoration. Sounds boring as fuck, but the views are awesome, and the official tours don't start 'til May."_

"No one will see us, is what you're saying."

_"We can relax, is what I'm saying. No beanie hats or hoodies unless our heads get cold. PDA and poor table manners encouraged."_

Arthur sighed for the umpteenth time. "Sure, yeah. Okay. As long as it's not raining. If it's raining we stay at yours and watch telly. And I've some new properties for you to look at."

_"Deal!"_ Em said.

Arthur thought his enthusiasm sounded a tad forced. Em had definite opinions about where he _didn't_ want to live—anywhere gated, or that looked remotely like Privet Drive—but he had yet to do more than glance at anything Arthur had shown him. It was like he didn't even _care_ what kind of worktops his precious toastie maker would live on and whether or not their hypothetical dog had sufficient room to play.

* * *

The FA Cup semi-final fell on a Sunday, just as the League Cup final had seven weeks back, but that's where the similarities ended. Coach's temper was on a knife's edge (Cenred and Jarl had been spouting shite to the press in the run-up to the fixture), and the squad were understandably less in awe of the whole Wembley experience. They'd been here before and now firmly believed they'd be back in May, but first they had a job to do.

As for Arthur, he hadn't admitted it to anyone but Em and Dr. Kilgary, but the idea of facing Agravaine made him uneasy.

_It was an accident,_ he'd told himself, over and over. _A freak thing. One chance in a million._ But that didn't calm his nerves, or his worry that Agravaine would sense his fear. It was the type of psychological advantage Kay talked about all the time, why he spent as much—or more—time studying match footage and following football gossip blogs as he did on conditioning.

When Coach asked who fancied taking a penalty, if things came to that—his tone strongly implying that it had better bloody well _not_ —there was an awkward pause as the squad carefully avoided looking at Arthur. It angered him enough to raise his hand, but he could practically hear his stomach doing flips.

"That's it, Wart," Leon murmured, slapping his shoulder. "Back in the saddle."

Kay nodded, grinning. "And never mind my usual advice, you stare that old clown right in the fucking eye. Like, apology be damned, you hold him _personally_ responsible for every bump, bruise and interrupted wank you've ever had. Then give him a nice friendly smile. It'll freak him out, trust me."

"Er, will do, Kendrick," Arthur said, returning the nod as Coach glowered and the rest of the team sniggered into their sleeves.

Before they lined up in the tunnel, Em caught his attention with a hand on the small of his back, whispering, "I told Agravaine that I'll gut him with a butter knife if he touches a single hair on your head."

"You _what?_ Em, you can't go around…" He trailed off as he noticed the sparkle in Em's eyes.

"No, but I can think it. What I really wanted to tell you was that I was watching him during the warm-up. Something's bothering him, but he's trying to hide it. He won't go full-stretch on the right."

"Seriously?"

Em nodded. "So I'm thinking you should get on that, number nine."

The shout came down for the teams to get in position, and Em smiled as he gave Arthur a little shove. "Go on."

Arthur resisted for a moment, grabbing Em's zipper pull and giving it a tug. "Cheers," he said. Then Leon was bellowing for him to get his fucking arse in gear, as the children were waiting.

* * *

Arthur got paired with a boy, aged about seven. He told Arthur that his name was Sameer, he'd won Arthur in a competition, and that his palms got sweaty when he was nervous.

"Me too," he said, giving the boy's hand a reassuring squeeze. "What's a little sweat between mates, yeah?" The boy gave him a brilliant smile and clung to his hand like he was afraid Arthur might disappear.

He wondered if it would be different, after people knew. What would happen if parents complained or their kids shied away?

_I'm not a monster,_ he reminded himself sternly as Sameer led him out onto the pitch. This brought to mind Em's sleepy face and lethal grumbling; then Sameer started bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement—just as Arthur had done at his age—and before Arthur knew it his nerves had settled and he'd smiled his way through the pre-match ceremonies.

Which, granted, wasn't the done thing, but there was no fucking _law_ saying you had to act the hard man at all times. When he shook Agravaine's hand, Arthur smiled extra wide, showing all his teeth.

_I'm sorry, mate,_ he thought. _But your day's about to go pear-shaped._

Arthur spent the first twenty making a flamboyant nuisance of himself. He rushed the ball every time it was passed back, no matter how unrealistic his chances were of winning it. During set pieces he ignored his markers and blatantly stared, grinning when he caught Agravaine's eye. Whenever possible he lingered in the area, commenting on the keeper's goal kicks, his takes, his hair.

Agravaine wasn't a complete fool; he quickly sussed what Arthur was up to, but by then he was already rattled. When he bobbled one of Gwaine's long-range, probing shots into the net, Arthur knew they'd as good as won.

He bagged a goal of his own minutes later, a ridiculous feinting, wheeling affair reminiscent of Myror's best. He slammed the final shot well to Agravaine's right and, sure enough, the man barely got a finger on it.

_Thank you very much, Emmett Emrys,_ Arthur thought, grinning towards the bench and giving Em a thumb's up before jogging over to thank Leon for the slick pass that had enabled the attack.

No one was surprised when the Blackadders' number one was subbed off at the half, and his replacement might have been well over six foot, but he was still green as grass. He had no idea what to make of the wild-eyed, grinning striker who kept slipping through the slimmest of gaps and attacking his box like a man possessed. It was only thanks to Escetia's excellent midfield possession (and a free kick conceded by Bors) that the match finished 3-1.

At the whistle, Coach abandoned his usual reserve. He pumped his fist in the air, his smirk blooming into a full-on grin. He took his time accepting hugs from his staff and patting his windblown hair back into place before "noticing" that Jarl was waiting to shake hands.

Arthur and the lads rushed him on the touchline as Jarl stalked off, enveloping him in a sweaty, bouncing mass of celebration that soon expanded to include the bench and all the staff. Owain got a grip on Arthur's neck and shouted, "You called it, you crazy fuck! Wembley in May, Wart, fucking Wembley in May!"

Laughing, Arthur ducked out of his grasp to congratulate Gareth, who'd shouldered a man's burden that afternoon shutting down Escetia's speedy number ten. He bumped chests with Kay and fists with Gwaine, then suddenly Em was in front of him—dark hair, blue eyes and a surging smile.

Without thinking—his instincts on the pitch were one of his best assets, everyone told him so—Arthur shouted, "Merlin!" and launched himself forward.

His kiss landed near Em's ear as they toppled over, which was perfectly innocent given the circumstances. But then Em turned his head, trying to say something. Their noses clashed, Arthur's lips brushed the side of Em's mouth, and… He didn’t pull away. Physically _couldn't._

Arthur felt Em's laugh peter out along with his exhale. He felt the weighty pause and the little hitch before Em sucked in a breath.

"What are you doing?" Em mumbled. Then he saved Arthur a whole lot of trouble by sliding his lips just a fraction more to the right, effectively answering his own question.

_Because, kissing, duh,_ Arthur thought. _And here I was about to tell you what a genius you are._

Arthur felt a hand on his shirt, pulling him off, and heard a chuckle.

"Steady on then, lovebirds." Leon said. "A bit of a high-spirited cuddle's one thing, but if you two start sucking face in earnest someone's going to notice."

"If they haven't already," Percy growled, reaching past Arthur to help haul a red-faced, grinning Em to his feet.

There was a sudden ripple in the crowd noise, followed by a surge Arthur could hear even above the blaring music. He couldn't see what was happening though. Had they been shown up on the big screens?

Elyan rolled his eyes at Percy. "No worries there, mate," he said, offering Arthur a hand up. "Looks like the circus is in town." He nodded towards the west end of the pitch, where a large barrel-chested man, naked as the day he was born, was legging it away from the stewards trailing a banner that read: MARRY ME ETTIE? U & ME & CFC 4 LIFE!

"Fucking straight people," Arthur said, laughing as the man tried to cup his bouncing genitals and picked up the pace. "Why do they always have to rub it in your face?"

"Forget the rubbing, he could take an eye out with that thing," Kay said, coming up behind Arthur and resting his hands on his shoulders. "Poor Ettie. I hope for her sake she's a size queen."

There was a chorus of laughter and groans. Em, still looking a little dazed, scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced over at Arthur. "Did we just kiss in public?"

"More or less. You okay with that?"

Em bit his lip, smiled. "Sure."

"Oi," Kay said, shaking Arthur. "We should totally go head him off—herd him, like with that sheep. Give Ettie a good look at what she's in for. Who's with me?"

"Do I want to help you chase a naked punter around Wembley? No, Kay, strangely I do not. Despite his big cock. Ask your back line."

"I'll go," said Percy, and the pair loped off across the pitch to intercept the streaker, leaving the rest of the squad to laugh and cheer them on from the touchline.

Arthur was hyper-aware of Em as the on-pitch celebrations wound down. They didn't touch or speak again, but Em always seemed to be in his sightline. Whenever their eyes met, Arthur struggled to keep a straight face. It was like they'd pulled off some brilliant prank right under the teacher's nose.

During the post-match interviews, Arthur kept waiting for a telling question or comment, but everyone was focused on the grand narratives of the day: Arthur's rampant form, Agravaine losing his bottle, and Camelot through to an FA Cup final for the first time since before the War.

When they showed the highlights reel in the dressing room, Arthur realised that what had felt like this huge significant _moment_ had lasted perhaps all of ten seconds and, from the crowd's perspective, merely looked like a mosh pit had broken out along CFC's bench.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

* * *

There was no booze-up this time, no all expenses paid night at the Epoch. Uther had sprung for a charter so Coach could bring the team straight back to Camelot and begin preparations for Caerleon. The club had been taken over recently by Annis, the widow of an old rival, and Uther didn't see why they shouldn't pick up right where he and Carl had left off with their friendly wagers. The prize was dinner at a restaurant of the winner's choosing, anywhere in the world, and Annis was a fine-looking woman.

Coach's motives were less murky. If Camelot could beat Caerleon, they'd secure another three precious late-season points and have a good shot at rising to second in the table.

On the return flight, Gwaine hit Em up for a neck rub and Arthur got called in as a ref in a meandering disagreement between Elyan and Lance that seemed—as near as Arthur could tell—to be about what Gwen really wanted for her birthday.

Eventually, Arthur threw up his hands and announced, "Elyan, donate to one of her causes and wear the bloody hats she makes you. Lance, romantic trip to Paris, or that Warfest thing, whatever. Or you could always, you know, _ask her._ I've heard that works sometimes."

Then he stalked back down the aisle, growling, "Enough, Orkney. He's off-duty."

"That so, Princess? I didn't see the sign."

"Here's your sign." Arthur held up two fingers.

"Easy now, lads," Em said with a yawn. "Plenty of me to go round." He gave Gwaine's neck a final swipe with his thumbs, then reached up over his head, stretching. "But he's right, Gwaine. Fuck off and let me have my favourite pillow back."

"Aren't you two a right pair of charmers," Gwaine muttered, but he hoisted himself up and sauntered towards the drinks trolley.

"Favourite pillow?" Arthur said as he slid into the seat.

Em yawned again, nodding, and lifted the central armrest so they could slump against one another. "Well, second favourite. Your arse is plumper, but it's close quarters and I'm not sure you're that flexible."

"Charmer indeed," Arthur chuckled. He switched off their reading lights and closed his eyes. He'd just about drifted off when Em whispered his name.

"Yeah?"

"What happened today? Was that…? Did you mean to do that? Were you _hoping_ someone would see?"

"No," Arthur said, but that wasn't entirely the truth. He opened his eyes, frowning, and tilted his head towards Em. "And yes. I don’t know. It's more like I didn’t care if they did see, because I've been wanting to do that for months now, and I hate that I even have to think about it, that it's not just something I can do without it _meaning_ something, you know?"

Em made a sound, a sort of muffled snort. "Meaningless kisses for all, eh? There's a banner I'd march behind."

Arthur jostled his shoulder. "Meaningless to _them,_ idiot. To me, it's…" He trailed off as laughter broke out up near the drinks trolley, where Gwaine and Gaheris were flirting with the cabin crew.

"What?" Em said.

"Never mind. It's stupid."

Em slid a hand onto Arthur's thigh, tapping it with his forefinger.

"Mate, keep in mind that I've seen you prancing around in only your socks, singing crap pop ballads with a dildo for a mic. And you honestly thought you were being sexy. So..."

_The fucking Mill,_ Arthur thought, wincing. "Yeah but I was pissed out of my skull that night."

"What? No you weren't. Arthur, I'm talking about last month, the morning after the Wessex match."

"Oh. Right." He supposed he set the stupid bar pretty high… on a regular basis.

"Mmm."

Arthur covered Em's hand with his own, brushing his fingertips over the protruding bones of his wrist. "Speaking of Wessex, though, remember our first kiss?"

"Oh _jaysus."_ Em said, hiding his face against Arthur's shoulder. "I was such a bastard."

"No, it was brilliant," Arthur countered, squeezing Em's wrist. "Seriously. I'd never—I'd always liked the _idea_ of kissing, when I was younger. It was one of the few things you were supposed to want to do with girls that made any kind of sense to me. But in reality it always felt like this exam that I was failing… or a box they were ticking off on some checklist before shoving my hand in their knickers.

"With you, though. Oh my _god."_ Arthur closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of Em's hair, remembering the wet tiles at his back and the feeling that, for a few minutes at least, his life had gone horribly, insanely _right._

"Liked the taste of your own cum, did you?" Em murmured.

"Shut up," Arthur whispered. "It wasn't that. You made me feel so fucking _wanted,_ okay? Normal. Happy. Not alone." He gave Em's wrist another gentle squeeze. "And it's still like that for me, every time, even if it's just a quick peck hello. I need that, Emmett, need to be reminded of those things."

"I think we all do," Em whispered back.

They lapsed into silence, but Arthur felt wide awake now, his brain bristling with thoughts. He opened his eyes, taking in all the backs of heads—lads dozing with their headphones on, coaching staff poring over their notes, already plotting for Caerleon, and Gwaine's distinctive topknot up by the drinks trolley.

There was a reason they'd chosen seats at the back of the plane, a reason Percy had sprawled across the row opposite and loudly declared that no one was to fucking disturb him until they'd landed. Even here, where they were mostly safe, they were hiding.

The rush of bitterness felt like a hard ball to the gut, a swift shock followed by a lack of air. Arthur curled his free hand into a fist.

"Let them see," he said, pounding his fist on the armrest. "Em, I keep thinking—if it's going to be a big deal no matter what, then _fine._ Let them see that I'm arse over tit for you. Let them see that the bloke whose shirt their kids are begging for is a needy, dick-whipped queer, and he's not ashamed of it. That I'm _better_ with you in my life, and I've even got the fucking stats to prove it. Right?"

Em made no reply other than to press his face more firmly against Arthur's shoulder. Which was odd, as Em always wanted the last word.

"Em? Are you—" Arthur froze as someone approached, but it was only Leon heading back to the loo. He laid a hand on Arthur's shoulder, but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Arthur turned towards Em as soon as he'd passed, but Em shifted with him. His face remained stubbornly burrowed against Arthur's torso. He was trembling.

"Look at—are you _laughing_ at me, you little shit?" Arthur lifted his hand to try and pry Em's head off his chest. When he touched his cheek, he was stunned to find that it was wet.

"Em?"

"Where… where were you when I was ten?" he whispered. "I mean, someone like you. Someone I could point to when all those… _fuck."_

Suddenly Em gave a great, honking snuffle and grabbed hold of Arthur's tie with his free hand. "If you tell a soul about this, Pendragon, I will gut you with a butter knife."

Arthur pressed his nose into Em's hair, smiling, and stroked it where it curled round his ear. "Lame, Emrys. You already used that one today."

"Doesn’t mean I won't do it," Em mumbled. Then, suddenly, he looked up, nearly cracking Arthur across the chin. He let go of the tie and hastily wiped away his tears, eyes darting over Arthur's face.

"Whenever you want, Arthur. I fucking swear. You can kiss me whenever—and wherever—you want. Alright?"

Arthur swallowed and nodded, pressing his thumb against Em's lower lip.

_Kiss,_ he thought, then repeated it aloud, just to see Em's watery smile.


	46. Man of the Match

On Thursday, after training, Arthur received an urgent summons from his father. Uther had flown into town for a board meeting and had been lurking around Knightswood all week, even going so far as to take in a couple training sessions and tea in the canteen. Catrina was in raptures, but it was putting the rest of the squad, Coach included, on edge. As far as he was concerned, owners were meant to keep their cheque books open and their mouths closed, especially when it came to opinions on training methods and squad selection.

If Arthur hadn't known better, he would have suspected Uther of getting caught up in the Gold Dragons fever that was sweeping the city. Odds were, however, that it was merely some charade for the benefit of the press, or Annis. _Who knows though?_ Arthur thought as he was shown into the boardroom. _Maybe he's finally falling in love with the place._

Uther was on his mobile, eyes fixed on a laptop open before him. Beyond the long, gleaming arc of the table, a bank of windows overlooked the practice pitches. Arthur quietly declined the PA's offer of tea, shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed to the windows, watching the academy boys as they raced one another out onto the grass. They'd just been released from their afternoon lessons.

Arthur remembered that feeling, the thrill of escaping the classroom, the fog of maths or history slapped away by a fresh spring wind. Football had always made sense to him, even when nothing else did. It had been his one respite from a welter of conflicting emotions and a body that, off the pitch, had seemed traitorous.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Arthur."

Startled from his daydream, Arthur turned round. "Hmm?"

His father glanced up from the screen, giving a little "tch" and shake of his head.

_Were we caught on camera after all?_ Arthur wondered. _Or yesterday, out at Fyrien, that old caretaker and his dog—he could have had a dozen telephoto lenses stashed under that mac._

Strangely, he felt no panic as he joined his father at the table, only a numb sort of curiosity, as if they were talking about other people's lives. He supposed that was how boardrooms were designed to make you feel. It probably made sacking people much easier.

Uther angled the laptop towards Arthur and jabbed a key. Arthur wasn't surprised to see his own face, but he was surprised by the fact that he knew exactly when and where the footage had been taken. He laughed.

"Why are you watching Excalibur adverts? You're not seriously thinking of switching over?" Arthur had never known his father to use anything other than a Clarent Edge in between sessions with his barber.

"Don't play coy, son," Uther said. "Excalibur have approached us about a sponsorship deal. They sent this promotional—there, do you see?" Uther stabbed a finger at the screen, then fumbled with the keyboard, backing up the video.

Puzzled, Arthur watched. It was his telly advert for Excalibur, the extended version. But, as he soon realised, it was not the final cut. In this version, the two distinct suits—the rumpled sheets, scattered Balmorals and half-drunk glasses of champagne—were clearly visible behind Arthur as he moved towards the sink, a little smirk playing about his lips.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed again, but this time it stuck, and he couldn’t seem to stop. His expression was so fucking _goofy,_ more like he'd just clingfilmed the toilet seat or hid kippers in someone's luggage than shagged them legless. Em was right. He probably shouldn’t count on following in Cantona's footsteps when he hung up his boots.

"Arthur, control yourself!"

"Sorry, but—" He scrubbed a hand over his face, still chuckling. "Apart from the acting, that wasn't a poor decision on my part. Excalibur know, and they've pledged to stand by me. I expect that was the whole reason we did that shoot. So, if you're telling me they now want to back the club?" Arthur shrugged. "Don't see the problem. In fact, I think it's bloody brilliant. As long as I don't have to see my own face on the hoardings."

For a moment, Uther stared at Arthur as if he'd grown a second head. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and swivelled his chair towards the window. "Text and product image only," he said grudgingly. "But the regular print ads would go in the programmes."

"Fine by me."

"Dammit, Arthur!" Uther swivelled back round, slapping a hand on the table. "I can't believe you told that perfumed bunch of frog—"

"Careful, Father," Arthur cut in, waggling a finger. "I believe we frown on that kind of language in this century." He pushed back from the table and stood. "Look, football reaches a massive, global audience. The club's having a record year and will be playing in Europe next season. Why wouldn’t they want to invest? It could be as simple as that."

Arthur saw his father chew on the thought, not entirely liking the taste, but not automatically spitting it out. This was what he had promised Arthur and Morgana back in February: to at least listen.

"It doesn’t have to be though," Arthur added softly. "It could be more. There's a lot of interest, in certain sectors, in someone like me coming out. Everyone will be watching how it's handled at the club level, and though some sponsors won’t touch it, I believe there are plenty more who _will._ If you—"

"The added scrutiny, the fans, the _shareholders,"_ Uther muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead. "It would be a circus, Arthur. A goddamn circus and you know it."

"Not if _we_ set the standard," Arthur countered. His father peered over the tips of his fingers, frowning.

"It's like Doctor Kilgary says. Even if we don’t win, if we've kept our form—if we've come out and played the way we wanted to, if we've held our heads high—then we've succeeded. I think that's true off the pitch as well as on."

Uther's eyes narrowed. "Please, son, don't insult me. Save that old coot's inspirational clap-trap for the foot soldiers."

Arthur didn’t know what came over him, but the next thing he knew he'd grabbed his father's chair. He wheeled it forcefully towards the window and parked it with a jolt. Uther yelped and struggled to stand, but Arthur restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

"It's not clap-trap. It's _pride,_ Father. Hard work. Community. Self-respect. It's what this club was fucking built on, long before you arrived. Look." He pointed out at the practice pitches, where scores of boys were now packed into tight squares, dribbling round one another.

"How many of them are going to make it, really make it, at the top level—two, maybe three? But they'll all walk out of here with the tools necessary to become good men. Not to say we all use them, or even know which end's up straight away…" Arthur paused, glancing down at his father with a rueful half-smile.

"But saying 'We are Camelot' means we _stand_ for something. Maybe it's not up to me to say exactly what that something is, but don’t you go sneering at me for giving a fuck, because all of us—squad, staff, supporters—giving a fuck day in, day out? That's what gives this club real value. Not your bloody shareholders."

Arthur paused to take a breath, noticing that his father was staring resolutely out the window, looking almost bored. He also noticed that he'd missed a spot shaving, a salt-and-pepper patch just below his right sideburn.

"And that clap-trap is what's going to win your goddamn wager for you on Saturday," he added in a kinder tone, prodding the stubble. "So best see your barber."

Uther jerked his head away from Arthur and glared up at him. Arthur raised his hands in apology. "Sorry, but—it's Annis, yeah? You'll want to look sharp. Morgana knows her from an… er, business club she belongs to, says she's not easily impressed."

"I don't," Uther began, pushing up from his chair and smoothing down invisible wrinkles in his suit. "That is to say…" He glanced at Arthur, red-faced, and Arthur worried that he'd gone too far for a moment, until in sunk in that his father wasn't angry. He was _embarrassed._

"Father, you said… Look, if I'm anything like her, then I think she wouldn’t want you to be alone in life. Whatever that means for you. Alright?"

Even as he said the words, Arthur realised that he was tensing himself to flee, weight forward on the balls of his feet. His father stared at him, gape-mouthed, then shook his head.

"Get out," he said, but there was no heat in it. In fact, Arthur thought he saw a weary smile tugging at the corners of his father's lips. "Go on, off with you. You're entitled to your opinion on the club—you've earned that, I'll admit—but I'm not about to start taking relationship advice from my gay son."

_Fair enough,_ Arthur thought as he turned to leave, still a little stunned that he'd got away with mentioning his mother.

"And, Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Don't lose on Saturday. It's not just Annis. I've got representatives from half a dozen potential new sponsors coming, including someone from your precious Excalibur."

"Of course," Arthur replied. He rode his smirk all the way back down to the ground floor.

* * *

Saturday saw bands of thundershowers sweep across Camelot from the southwest, soaking the pitch and exposed seating. By two o'clock, though, sunlight was punching through the scudding clouds and damp, giddy fans were pouring through the gates. Arthur could feel the expectation, the nervous excitement rolling off them in waves.

During the warm-up, he tried to blot out everything but his teammates' voices and the familiar, pleasant ache of his muscles as he stretched. He traded a nod with Derian, but otherwise ignored the opposition. They were nothing but numbers now, 3D versions of the little coloured dots on a screen—all those diagrams Coach had drawn up of how they planned to stop him.

"Let them try," Leon had boasted in the war room yesterday, tousling Arthur's hair. "Slippery as an eel, is our Wart."

_"Let them try,"_ Em had yawned over the phone last night. _"You'll find a way through. You're wriggly like that. Like a worm, only with, y'know, feet."_

As he walked off the pitch, Arthur wondered what had become of all the horse and pony analogies. In retrospect, those sounded much more… dignified.

"Wart, incoming!"

Arthur dodged instinctively at Gareth's shout, but Kay's towel still caught him on the hip as he skipped past.

"Look lively, lads, look lively!" he sang out as he made his way down the tunnel, trying, quite literally, to whip the team into a frenzy. "I'm looking forward to having a nice kip between the sticks today."

This last was said well within Derian's earshot, and Arthur shared a knowing smile with Percy as the towering striker glared at Kay's back.

Kay toned down the swagger in the dressing room, but not by much. It spread throughout the team, the banter coming quick and lively until Coach reminded them that there was such a thing as over-confidence.

As was his custom now, Arthur ducked into a stall with his wash bag to put on a bit of Em's lip gloss. He lingered afterwards, turning the tin over and over in his hands, listening to the driving guitars of the Spanish punk rock that Lance had brought in to make up for the gypsy jazz. It didn't take long for the thin metal to catch the heat of his skin.

_Focus, Arthur,_ he told himself. _This is what you're fighting for._

There was a sharp knock on the stall door, accompanied by a soft, "Arthur?"

Arthur instinctively dropped the tin back into his wash bag, even as his brain registered that it was only Em. "Yeah?" he said, opening the door.

Em looked him over with bright, searching eyes. "Everything all right?"

Arthur nodded. Then, on a whim, he shook his head and reached out, dragging Em into the stall.

"Had to put my lucky lippie on," he whispered as he dropped his wash bag back on the ledge and manoeuvred Em up against a side wall. "See."

He jutted out his chin, tapping his lower lip. Em made a strangled, breathy sound which might have been headed towards a laugh, but Arthur didn't give it a chance. He cupped Em's face and rubbed their noses together briefly before sealing his mouth up with a solid kiss. He tasted of oranges, or something that was trying very hard to be oranges.

"That's better," Arthur murmured as he pulled away, smoothing down the front of Em's jacket.

Em's expression faded from happily surprised to something dark and predatory. "Oh, I'm having you, mister," he said under his breath.

Arthur raised an eyebrow and hooked a thumb towards the door. "Right _now?_ See, I've got this job..."

"Tonight, you… you perfect fucking _arse."_ Em grabbed his wrists and walked him back against the opposite wall. "So go do a goal or two for me. I'll even make it interesting. You score with your right foot, I suck your cock; left foot, I shag you rotten, any position you like."

Arthur licked his lips, grinned. "What about a header?"

Em leaned in, putting his lips up to Arthur's ear. "Header is you strapped down and my tongue in your arse until you _weep."_

"And if I do all three?" Arthur whispered, closing his eyes.

"A perfect hat trick? Ridiculous," Em scoffed. Arthur could feel him struggling not to smile. "Impossible. But if you do, then... All of the above, plus I'll show you how to top me like a porn star. See if we can give Will's new earplugs a proper trial, yeah?"

Arthur burst out of the stall like his pants were on fire (which, in a way, they were).

He had no idea what kind of warmongering shite he spouted as he stalked back into the dressing room proper, but it garnered a lusty round of cheers. Then Kay, looking pointedly at Arthur's shorts, said, "Someone's clearly up for it. Damn, Wart, that must have been one hell of a crap."

"Fucking inspirational," Arthur shot back, grinning. He couldn’t help his blush, but he held his chin high through all the ribbing. Somehow, Em escaped unscathed, materialising between Elena and Coach like a ghost and remarking loudly how eager he was to go full-time at the academy, so he wouldn’t have to deal with so many bloody children.

"Wait, what?" Percy said, sending the room into further paroxysms of laughter.

* * *

The first ten minutes were agonising. Coach had instructed them to hold their shape, let Caerleon see a bit of the ball, and watch what they did with it. Every single time, they fed it up the middle to Derian. Percy had him covered, but the fucker was just so big—like a tank, but with the turning radius of a Spitfire. Once he had the ball, it was hell trying to get it off him.

However, as Kay had known, when riled Derian was selfish. After sending a few sailing over the crossbar or straight into Kay's arms when there were other options, Derian's teammates began to send him mutinous looks, and his gaffer looked to be having a coronary.

Then, on a signal from Coach, Leon pulled the midfield in tighter, disrupting Derian's supply chain. As soon as Camelot had solid possession, they fanned out wide, Elyan and Gaheris taking advantage of the momentary free space out on the wings. They knew they couldn’t get away with it forever, but when it worked, it bloody _worked,_ and at the quarter-hour mark Arthur found himself with the ball at his feet and only one man in front of him.

"Here!" he heard Gwaine shout. Arthur dribbled at the defender, watching the cant of his hips, where he placed his weight. Just as he committed, Arthur flicked the ball out right to Gwaine and dropped back, racing round them both to pop up on the other side. And there was the ball again, setting up nice and easy a pace or two in front of him, Gwaine having timed the thing like a bloody watchmaker.

_Lovely,_ Arthur thought. _Fucking textbook. Surely it can't be this easy._

Arms outstretched, he ran through the ball. And slipped on the wet grass. And fell. Hard. He watched as the ball sailed high.

_Fuck,_ he thought, quickly scrambling up. It was good that he did, too, because by some miracle the shot nicked the bar and dropped, and the defender fluffed the clearance. Two other backs had converged by this point, as well as Elyan and Gwaine, but Arthur was closest. He rushed in with jabbing feet and, after a close-quarters game of pinball, managed to poke the ball over the line.

"Ugliest goal I've ever seen," Gwaine declared gaily, hanging off Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur winced as Leon caught him round the waist and lifted him off the ground. It felt like he was going to have a fantastic bruise on his hip. "When they start handing out points for style, I'll be sure to give a— _ow,_ mate, get _off_ —a fuck."

Before they jogged back for the restart, Arthur sought out Em on the touchline, lifted his right leg and pointed to his foot.

_Blowjob, love,_ he thought. Then he caught sight of himself on the jumbotron and realised he looked like a toddler showing his mum that he'd just managed his own laces.

_Still… blowjob._

Em covered his face with his hands.

"Oi! Captain Morgan," Leon hollered as Gwaine grabbed the back of Arthur's shirt and hustled him, giggling, back into position.

* * *

He wasn't laughing for long. Five minutes later, Derian won a corner off Lance, and somewhere in the resulting melee the ball wound up in the back of the net, deflected off Percy's thigh. The goal gave Caerleon a boost, and it was touch-and-go for a while as the Legionaries swarmed Camelot's half. 

Luckily, Percy was one of those blokes who didn't do guilt so much as really aggressive atonement. When the other backs fucked up he'd yell at them, but when _he_ fucked up he'd take on a look like a wounded animal; you could practically see the steam billowing out his nostrils. Arthur hated going up against him in training when he was in that state.

Slowly, Camelot battled back, and deep in the half they started creating chances again. Caerleon responded by switching round two of their defenders, the speedier left back coming in to challenge Arthur. It was annoying, but he tamped down his personal ambitions and tried to find some joy in toying with the man before laying the ball off for his teammates.

"You trying to take my job, Princess?" Gwaine teased as they set up for a corner.

"Just trying to put Mister Grabby Hands here through his paces." Arthur shoved back against his new shadow, who was—as they spoke—clutching a good handful of Arthur's shirt.

"Steady on, mate," the man said, tightening his grip. "Ain't even broke a sweat yet."

"You steady on," Arthur muttered. When Elyan struck the ball, he darted forward suddenly, hoping to force the man into letting go. Instead, Arthur's shirt nearly ripped as the man resisted, then crashed into his back, sending Arthur sprawling.

Exasperated, Arthur looked up, but there was no whistle, and the linesman wasn't paying him any attention. Then, in a flash, he realised that the reason the linesman wasn't paying him any attention was because he was busily trotting back towards the half-line, that the Citadel was fucking _bouncing,_ and that a determined-looking Percy was plucking the ball out of Caerleon's net and racing it back towards the centre circle.

_Well, that's alright then,_ Arthur thought, grinning into the grass. _Percy 1-1 Percy._

He pushed himself up onto his knees, wiped his face on his sleeve and accepted a hand up from Leon.

"I put a word in the ref's ear about your friend there," Leon said. "He'll be watching next time; just settle down, alright?"

Arthur nodded, but before he got back in position he sought out the left back, leaned in and said, "Hey, mate, you want my shirt that bad all you have to do is ask. I'll even do you an autograph if you come find me in the tunnel."

"Oh, sod off," the man said, giving Arthur a wry grin.

Arthur winked and gave the man a friendly pat on the back before jogging away.

Camelot enjoyed the lion's share of the possession after that, but Arthur still couldn't find a way in. Then, in the dying minutes of the half, Caerleon's keeper sent a goal kick soaring well over three-quarters of the pitch, right to Derian. The big man trapped it, spun away from an onrushing Bors and stampeded towards goal. Lance came racing in to tackle, but it was too late; Derian got the shot away. Kay flung himself sideways, but he couldn’t get a finger on it—which, judging by the way the ball punched out the back of the net, was probably lucky for Kay's fingers.

* * *

It was a very different team who trudged into the dressing room at the half. At 2-2 they weren't beaten, not by a long shot, but looking around Arthur saw that everyone, like him, was exhausted—not so much from the physical effort as the frustration of seeing all of their good work go to waste.

He eased himself down onto the bench beside Kay, wincing at the pull in his bruised hip. He saw Em watching him with a knitted brow, but subtly shook his head. There was probably nothing to be done but slap some ice on it, and there were others in need of more urgent treatment. Besides, he almost didn't want to see what he'd done to himself, not yet. He just needed to get through this next forty-five—no, not get through, but _own_ somehow—and then he could go back to admitting he was a squishy mortal.

"Fuck," Kay growled. He'd thrown off his gloves in disgust and had his head in his hands.

"Yep," Arthur agreed, grabbing the back of Kay's neck and giving him a shake. "But chin up, soldier. Battle's only half-won."

"You mean half over."

"No, think about it. They've only scored off our errors, or with a bit of luck. There wasn't much you could have done with either of those balls. We, however, have created our own chances. Scored with—well, not class, but still. They were solid goals, yeah?"

At Kay's scowling side-eye, he let go, leaned back and closed his eyes, stretching his legs out with a little moan. "Yeah, okay. Fuck it. And fuck that sticky number three. I need to lose him."

"I wholeheartedly agree."

Arthur's eyes flew open, and he sat up straight. Coach was looming above them, hands clasped behind his back. He had a dangerous look in his eye that Arthur rather liked.

"They want to shift the pieces on the board? Fine. Let's give them a taste of their own medicine, shall we?"

"Coach?"

Coach produced a clipboard from behind his back and thrust it into Arthur's hands. "That's how we're lining up. Do you see?"

Arthur studied the diagram, his initial confusion at not seeing his number giving way to a bubble of excitement. There were only nine dots in the outfield formation. Gwaine was now out on the left wing, with Elyan shifted inside and Tristan pushed up in support. A little arrow indicated Lance pushing up into the midfield, leaving only Bors, Percy and Gareth at the back.

A slow smile spread across Arthur's face. They were fucking _going_ for it. "And where do you want me?" he asked, just to be certain he understood.

"Anywhere you bloody well like, son. I'm taking the collar off. Don't let me regret it."

"I won't," Arthur said, standing. He caught Em's eyes across the room and grinned. As Coach turned to address the rest of the squad, Arthur mouthed, "Hat trick."

* * *

It was a bold move. It also meant a lot more work for everyone every time Camelot lost possession, but it sure as hell paid off. With Elyan's speed and skill up the centre, Gwaine's ability to suddenly cut inside on his stronger foot and Arthur free to roam, Caerleon never knew where the next threat would come from. They pulled back into a solid line, and then it was all about pass and move, CFC pushed so high up the pitch that at times it was almost like a 3-2-5.

Again and again, Camelot managed to penetrate Caerleon's back four, sending the keeper scrambling. He was a veteran, not easily rattled, but Arthur knew he must be willing the clock to move faster.

As for Arthur, he forgot all about time and concentrated on _spaces,_ the endless game of freeform chess that never failed to make his veins sing. He nipped in between the two centre backs to score a diving header off a cross from Gaheris— _rim job, thank you very much._ He dribbled all the way out to the corner, then ducked back round to set Elyan up for a volley (punched out, unfortunately), and even got off a decent, if ultimately toothless, bicycle kick.

"Who's trying for style points now, Princess?" Gwaine chuckled.

"Cut out the fancy crap, Pendragon," Leon barked.

Arthur saluted him and, next time he got the ball, dribbled round two defenders, chipped the ball over the onrushing keeper's head, then raced around him for a tap-in. With his left foot. He made sure of that.

_Game. Set. Match,_ he thought. Which was mixing sporting metaphors, but who really cared? He had his perfect hat trick, and they were up 4-2.

The Citadel was in a frenzy by this point. Arthur could hear strains of "Our Number Nine" booming out from the Kop. After he escaped the manpile, Arthur sprinted all the way down the pitch to give them a wave and a bow—pausing along the way to show Em his left foot—and got himself booked for excessive celebration. The ref looked almost sorry to be doing it, especially when the ironic cheers rained down.

With only ten minutes left in regulation and the Legionaries looking thoroughly deflated, Coach pulled Arthur off to give Dagonet a run-out.

"Well done, lad. Well fucking done," he chortled as Arthur passed, gripping his forearm and pulling him in for a half-hug.

Arthur accepted high-fives and pats on the shoulder from the bench as he settled in. He had a seat almost directly behind Em, who'd winked as Arthur approached, but otherwise kept his eyes on the match. With his jacket draped around his shoulders, Arthur leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He laced his fingers so they casually brushed against the little swirl of hair at the nape of Em's neck.

After a moment's pause, Em pressed his head back, just a fraction. They watched the game play out like that, one small, quiet point of connection in a riot of motion and sound. Arthur thought he could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

He'd just killed it out there, given a performance—under pressure—worthy of a world-class striker. There was no way he wasn't going to celebrate any damn way he pleased. And spending an hour plus stuck in weekend traffic on the motorway just for a chance to share greasy, tepid takeaway and try not to fuck too loudly in Em's cramped bed? That was _not_ how he pleased.

_To hell with all this sneaking around,_ he thought. He was going to do this properly.

* * *

When the whistle blew, Arthur didn’t hesitate. "Wait here," he said into one pink, wind-chapped ear, leapt up, and sprinted back out onto the pitch. He got caught up in the celebrations—he wound up swapping shirts with a surprisingly soft-spoken Derian and giving his boots away to an incredulous little girl in a rainbow clown wig—but at last he made his way to the officials. He shook all their hands, accepting their compliments along with the match ball. Then, pausing only to hitch up his now-soaking socks, he jogged back to the touchline.

Em was on his feet, but otherwise he'd stayed put, which made him the odd man out; most of the other staff had drifted onto the pitch or towards the tunnel entrance. His eyes widened when he saw Arthur bounding towards him.

"What the—"

Arthur lifted the ball, kissed it, and pushed it at Em's chest. "For you," he said. "My perfect hat trick."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?" Em said, clutching the ball. He was still wearing his gloves—blue eyes, blue fingers, just like when they'd first met. Arthur laughed.

"You mean ridiculously _awesome."_

Em blinked, smiled. "Yeah. That too, a bit. Is this the part where we filthy-kiss and get fifty pee coins and half-eaten pies chucked at our heads?"

"Erm, actually I was thinking more along the lines of asking you if you would go out to dinner with me tonight, just the two of us, at The Kitchens, and then come back to mine and—"

Arthur heard someone bellow his name.

"—and help me make a few phone calls," he finished, glancing over his shoulder. Cador from club security was headed his way with a couple of suits in tow.

"Congratulations, son," Cador said. "The doping control show is in town, and you're one of the lucky contestants."

"Are you fucking serious?" Arthur spat out, thinking, _Now?_

"Mister Pendragon, may I remind you that the FA—" one of the suits began.

"I'll fetch your ID, shall I?" Em cut in brightly, nudging Arthur in the ribs. "And maybe some dry socks?"

"Er, yeah. Sorry, I…" Arthur looked down at his wet, muddy feet. Random drugs tests were all part of the deal with this job; it wouldn’t help to get a reputation for being difficult, especially not now. "And some shoes?"

"We'll have you in and out quick as we can," the second—obviously much friendlier—suit assured him. "Do you have a representative you'd like to accompany you?"

"You want me to come with?" Em said.

Arthur glanced up, then shook his head. He didn't quite trust his ability to keep a straight face if Em was watching him piss in a cup in front of some guy's face. They had to get up close and personal, make sure you weren't pissing out of a pouch. And if Em started making those _eyes_ at him, it could get… awkward.

"Nah. I'm a big boy."

"I know," Em murmured. To the chaperones, he said, "I'll just nip back for his gear. Where should I bring it?"

"We're set up just past the officials' dressing room."

"Grand." Em gave the men a hearty smile. "And tell the BCO to use his left arm. The big vein on the right looks juicy, but it's shy."

"Emrys, _ugh."_ Arthur wrinkled his nose.

"What? It's true." Em shrugged and trotted off with the ball cradled under one arm, leaving Arthur to follow the men towards the tunnel. Along the way they collected Gareth, who was the other lucky player selected for testing.

"Can't stand needles," he confessed to Arthur.

Arthur racked his brain for words of comfort, but all he could come up with was, "Uh, lie back and think of England, mate?"

It made Gareth laugh though, so that was something. Arthur also let him go first, which meant it felt like _ages_ from when Em left him in the sterile quiet of the small anteroom until he was released back into the wilds of the tunnel, where the camera crews were waiting to pounce.

By this point, Arthur was exhausted, sore, and near the end of his patience. He'd put in his shift and then some. He'd had the most visceral reminder that his body—his own piss and blood—wasn't entirely his own, and all he wanted to do was to wash off the dried sweat, the awkward chit-chat and endless questions and find Em.

The absolute _last_ thing he wanted was to have mics shoved in his face. But this, he knew, was how his bread got buttered. So he thought of sitting across from Em at a table for two, thought of passing him the salt before he asked for it, ogling the sommelier together, and sharing a pudding. He thought of Em's quiet, ardent "Yes" outside doping control—the sparkle in his eyes and the firm brush of his fingers—and conjured up a genuine smile as he was guided in front of the sponsor wall.

_They're just doing their jobs,_ he reminded himself. _Don’t be an arse._

"You must be getting fed up with this, yeah?" one or the reporters joked as Arthur was handed his bottle of champagne for Man of the Match.

"Honestly? No." Arthur held the bottle up. "A few more and I can open a nightclub in my kitchen. VIP bottle service, courtesy of the league."

The assembled crowd laughed.

"Seriously though. I'm more of an ale man, so I'll probably just share it round with the lads. Which is as it should be. The team worked their legs off today so I could have those opportunities, so… cheers, lads!" Arthur saluted the camera and began edging away. He'd just spotted Em coming out of the dressing room.

"Arthur, what's the story behind the new goal celebrations?" someone called out.

"And did we spot you giving the match ball to your physio?" another added.

The man directly in front of Arthur smirked and turned to his colleagues, saying, "That must have been one hell of a massage."

There was another trickle of laughter. Arthur froze.

"Ah, nothing like that. Just a private joke. We had a bit of a…" _Rubbish,_ Arthur thought, strangling the bottle in his fist. _Rubbish rubbishy rubbish._

"Oi, Emrys!" he shouted. Em wheeled round, arms full of something red. "Get over here."

Em pointed to himself and pulled a face.

"Yeah, you." Arthur laughed despite himself. "Ladies and gents, can you let the man through please?"

The crowd parted and Em slipped through, darting a nervous glance at the cameras before offering Arthur the hoodie he was clutching. Arthur saw that it was his own, the old club one Em liked so much. Arthur had packed it in his bag to have for the weekend, as they'd originally planned to leave for Em's directly after the match. He realised that Em had probably been bringing it to the doping control station, wondering what was keeping Arthur, worrying that he would get cold.

"Here, trade," Arthur said gruffly. He handed Em the champagne and pulled the hoodie over his head. Then he remembered the cameras, the snide little remarks.

"I take it back," he said, looking right into the lenses. "Here's your Man of the Match right here." He slung an arm round Em's shoulders. "Well, mine, at any rate. The goals were for him. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for this man."

Arthur heard Em snort under his breath and looked over. "What? It's true. Well, I might be here, but not _here,_ you know what I mean?"

"He'd be a prick!" someone called out. Arthur recognised Leon's voice, then saw him passing by in the tunnel, still in his soiled kit. Gwaine was with him.

"Dull as ditchwater," Gwaine added.

Arthur grinned. "Exactly."

"Aw, cheers, mate," Em said with a forced smile.

Arthur hugged him tighter.

"So, are you the one who's been teaching him all the fancy tricks we saw out there?" the first reporter chuckled, holding a mic towards Em.

"Um." Em glanced over at Arthur, smile sliding into something more devious. "Not _all_ the tricks. Not yet. We're still working on a few things."

"Speaking of which," Arthur said, not even bothering to look at the cameras any more. "We should get going."

"Yes, we should." Em lifted an eyebrow.

Arthur let go, but not before planting a sound kiss on Em's cheek, followed by a peck on the lips. Then he took hold of Em's free hand and intertwined their fingers, holding on as he began to push his way towards the dressing room.

"Cheers, folks. If you'll excuse us."

Arthur heard the curious murmurs, saw the confused looks on people's faces. The league rep who'd handed over the champagne pressed in close, saying, "Son, I don't think you meant for that to be on camera."

Arthur paused, looking into the man's pinched, florid face. "Why not?"

"It looks a bit…"

"Gay?" Arthur shrugged. "Maybe that's because it _is."_

The man blanched. Em squeezed Arthur's hand.

"You don't mean that, son," the man hissed in Arthur's face.

"I think I do," Arthur whispered back. "In fact, I expect you'll be reading all about it tomorrow. Thanks in advance for the league's support, by the way. It means a great deal."

With that he pushed past, ignoring the rising clamour of questions. Leon and Gwaine, who had paused to watch, fell into step at their side and saw them safely into the dressing room.

They slammed the door behind them and all collapsed against it, suddenly bursting into laughter.

"Would you look at the balls on this one," Gwaine chortled. " 'Thanks in advance.' Jaysus, Arthur, what the fuck? Bloody priceless!"

"His fucking _face,"_ Leon wheezed.

Arthur gulped in a breath. "I don’t know. I don't know. Fuck, Em, I have to ring—"

"Mordred. And Hector. And your father. Yep. On it. You hop in the bath, and I'll grab your mobile." Em disentangled their fingers and started towards the lockers. He paused halfway, though, and set the champagne on the table piled with towels and snacks.

"But first." He raised his voice, addressing everyone in the room. For the most part the squad had showered and were changing back into their suits, but there were a few stragglers still in their kit or sitting around in their pants, necking protein drinks. "Lads, I'm resigning this post as of tomorrow."

There was a chorus of protests. Em lifted his hands, adding, "I'll only be next door at the academy, you big bunch of babies. And I'll make myself available for private consult, if you like, but for _now,_ I'm about to do something very unprofessional, so best shield your eyes."

He turned and stalked towards Arthur with eyes blazing.

"Shit," Gwaine breathed. He and Leon got out of the way.

"Emmett, what—" was all Arthur managed before Em had a fistful of his hoodie and was pressing him against the door. He wedged a foot between Arthur's and nudged his legs apart.

"Hello, Arthur," he whispered, breath hot and still orange-sweet. Then his hands were in Arthur's hair—tugging, kneading—and it was all tongue and spit and a wild joy that shivered down Arthur's spine. He wound his arms around Em's back and welcomed the crush.

They didn’t come up for air until the pounding on the door became too loud to ignore, especially as it was accompanied by Coach's voice. They broke apart, gasping, to wolf whistles and shouts of, "Atta boy, Merlin!" and "Get in there!"

A few of the lads had turned away or covered their faces, and were now peering over, saying, "What the…?"

"What's going on in here?" Coach huffed as he pushed into the room. He glanced at Arthur, who was still getting his land legs back, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and grinning like a fool.

It was Em who announced, "Arthur's coming out."

Coach's eyebrows went up a notch. "Well, I'd say he's more than earned it, Mister Emrys, don't you? Just don’t let him overindulge, and keep him away from the gutter press." He glared round the room. "That goes for the lot of you, actually, and double for Orkney."

"But—"

Coach turned back to Arthur, leaning in with a little smirk. "And stop by the club bar before you leave. There's a gentleman from the national squad who'd like to say hello. Said he didn’t mind waiting."

"What?" Arthur said. He grabbed for Em's hand in excitement. "Seriously?"

"I wouldn’t joke about something like that, son. You picked a good day to put on a show."

Arthur felt Em starting to pull away, and glanced over just in time to see the flash of worry in his eyes. Arthur held fast. "This changes nothing, Em."

"No? But—"

_"Nothing,"_ Arthur repeated, waiting until Em met his eyes. "Coach, he didn’t mean out to the clubs. I'm coming _out,_ out. Publicly. I can't do the double act anymore."

Em gave him the kitchen smile then, the private, pleased one that Arthur liked to pretend only he ever got to see. Arthur turned back towards Coach, who was now regarding him with ill-disguised concern.

"If England want me, they want me, and if they don't, they don't. But either way, I trust that they'll be making their decision based on what I can bring to the squad, not on who I sleep with."

There were coughs and snickers throughout the dressing room; for years now, certain members of the senior squad had been getting caught out in various bedroom scandals. They were still playing, still earning caps and being hailed as national—well, if not heroes, then at least men who were deemed fit to wear the Three Lions until England inevitably stumbled (or crashed) out of tournaments.

"For now though, the only football I care about is right here. At Camelot. I will work my arse off for you—for this club—but I need to do it as _myself._ And I need to be able to go home with this man at the end of the day, or out to the clubs or the shops or whatever, without worrying about who might see. Alright?"

Coach pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ," he muttered. When he dropped his hand, though, he was nodding.

"I hear you, son. I hear you." He patted Arthur's shoulder, then leaned in again, holding his gaze. "Have you spoken to the old man yet?"

Arthur shook his head. "Got a couple of other calls I need to make first, then I'll ring him."

Coach's face eased into a sly grin. "Promise me one thing then. I'm due up in the suite to glad-hand a bunch of potential sponsors. Wait until I've gone up, will you? That man and his mobile drive me mad, but I _quite_ think this is one call I'd like to see him take."

"Sure thing, Coach," Arthur agreed as the dressing room burst into laughter. "You can keep him away from the single malt for me. Um, now I should probably…"

"Yes, yes," Coach said, waving them off impatiently. "Go on. But no more snogging in the dressing room, okay? We're not running a bloody bathhouse!"


	47. Obstruction

Somewhere between his third attempt at ringing Mordred and being cornered in the dressing room by a wild-eyed George, Arthur realised that a quiet dinner at The Kitchens was probably off the books, at least in the near future. They weren't likely to starve, not with the spread on offer in the family lounge, but fighting off Kay for the last of the just-ripe bananas or having jam tarts shoved in their faces by a giddy Gwen didn't have _quite_ the same ambience.

"Shall I ring Avalon, tell them to send the go-go boys over with buckets of rainbow glitter?" Em teased when Arthur grumbled that, so far, coming out was proving far more _tedious_ than fabulous.

While the squad indulged in an impromptu celebration, he was spending his time huddled in corners with his mobile glued to his ear, reassuring various people that, _yes,_ this was happening and _no,_ he didn't need anything spun or fixed or swept under the carpet. Nor did he want to issue a statement, or do the rounds on telly. Not until the end of the season.

"Everything I want to say for now will be in tomorrow's _Echo,"_ he kept repeating, thinking, _And nothing more. Unless that little fuckwit has a death wish._

When said fuckwit finally rang Arthur back, he sounded halfway to being pissed and far too pleased with himself.

_"Three calls in an hour?"_ he drawled. In the background, Arthur heard a cacophony of voices and the skittery thump and jangle of a drum machine. _"My, my, we are desperate. What's happened? Your twink gone stale on you, not gagging for it like he—"_

"You know exactly why I'm ringing you," Arthur broke in. "You need to contact Sophia Van Timor and tell her you have another exclusive."

_"Ooh, someone's decided to be a big brave boy then? Or have you been caught out with your cock out? I do hope it's the latter. Always up for a plump, juicy scandal, me."_

Arthur pulled a face. Em, watching from across the lounge, mouthed a worried, "What?"

"It's the twat," he mouthed back. The lads were all showered, dressed and milling around the family lounge by this point, so Arthur retreated into the dressing room for a bit of privacy.

"What is this, Lot?" he said, easing himself down onto the bench. "You trying to chat me up again—'cause I have to tell you, you're going about it all wrong. And I'm still not interested. Never will be."

There was a loud burst of conversation in the background, a clink of glasses, then all the noise faded, as if Mordred had ducked outside or into another room. For a moment Arthur heard only the man's breathing, heavy and moist. Then there was a loud snort.

_"You're bloody dull is what you are, Pendragon. Dull and rich and a bully, just like all the rest."_

"I could give a fuck what you think of me, mate. Just file the story and take the money, yeah? Buy yourself some company… or therapy, actually. Sounds like you could use it."

Mordred chuckled. _"Aw, you do care."_

Arthur rolled his eyes. "In your dreams, Lot."

Just then, the connecting door opened and Em slipped into the dressing room, licking jam off his fingers. Arthur felt a sudden gut-punch of lust, coupled with impatience.

He rose, reminding Mordred what would happen if he tried taking the same sort of liberties with Arthur's story as he had with Em's. Or tried to flog it anywhere other than the _Echo._

_"Don't get you knickers in a twist, darling,"_ Mordred said. _"You hardly need my help to hang yourself on this one. Hope you've got a thick skin."_

"I have, thanks."

_"And do give me a ring if you ever want to leak any sex tapes. I could make you a—"_

Arthur ended the call with a vicious thumb, crossing the room towards Em.

"Everything okay?"

Arthur crowded in close, brushing stray crumbs off Em's chin. "Mordred's offering to flog my sex tapes."

Em tilted his head, considering. "Man may be a troll, but he's not stupid. If I didn’t already have the live, all-access pass, I'd totally pay for that shit."

"He also said I'm dull."

"No."

"Yes." Arthur nodded solemnly, thumbing Em's cheek. "And a bully."

"Well that can't be right, Grompet," Em whispered, leaning in so his lips were brushing against Arthur's wrist.

Arthur swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry.

"Who'd pay to watch a dull sex tape?"

Arthur dropped his head onto Em's shoulder, laughing ruefully. "Godammit. Em, I want you so bad right now. Can't we just… I don't know. I know what Coach said, but there must be _someplace_ we could—"

Arthur broke off at the sound of the door opening. He looked up to see Leon peering in, pink-cheeked, but determined.

"Wart, if you want a shot at a senior cap, you need to show your face in the club bar. Like, yesterday."

"Go on love," Em murmured, giving Arthur a wink. "Don’t want to keep England waiting. I'll stay here, try and calm poor George."

"You," Arthur whispered, gripping Em's shoulder, "will do no such bloody thing. Emrys, I'm not letting you out of my sight until I've collected my prize— _all_ my prizes—alright?"

* * *

Unfortunately, the evening seemed destined more for farce than for fucking.

Word of Arthur's bizarre post-match interview had spread; press who would have normally cleared off lingered in the passages and outside the players' entrance, wondering if there was more to come. George took one look at the bristle of camera lenses and microphones and went into full-on crisis mode. They were bundled to and from the club bar amidst a fearsome knot of security and club officials—Em murmuring, "I _much_ prefer your father's entourage, tits and all"—and forbidden from walking out with the rest of the team when it was time to board the coach back to Knightswood.

Instead, George snuck them down to the old wartime tunnels, now used mainly by staff to commute between the Citadel and the training ground. He commandeered old Charlie's golf cart, demanding that the groundsman push the thing up to top speed—an underwhelming 25 kph.

Old Charlie, clearly a bit underwhelmed himself, nevertheless played along like a champ, driving with a Mr. Toad-like disregard for any and all obstacles. "They'll never catch us, guv!" he cackled as they scooted around corners, causing George to glance nervously over his shoulder, as if he seriously expected someone to be in hot pursuit.

Arthur and Em spent the ride jostling one another's legs like schoolboys, avoiding eye contact lest they lose the plot entirely and laugh in the man's face.

By the time they reached the Knightswood car park, they were a giddy wreck. Promising George they'd head straight—well, maybe not _straight,_ but directly—home, they staggered to the M3 and collapsed inside, shaking with laughter. Arthur managed to pull it together enough to drive, but it was a near thing. Em kept on sniggering, kept on bloody _smiling_ at him and touching him in simple, devastating ways—fingers dipping into his collar, a hand stroking his thigh.

It was no wonder he temporarily forgot that red meant stop. That _anything_ meant stop, actually, as the whole world suddenly felt very much like _go._

* * *

It was half-past nine by the time they stumbled out of the lift onto Arthur's floor. He had a brief battle with the locks, which were clearly not on board with his life-affirming stoplight metaphors. As soon as he was inside, he dumped keys and bags on the floor, kicked off his shoes and started tearing off his clothes.

Behind him, Em let out an amused yelp and slammed the door shut.

"Arthur what—you do realise the shades are open?"

"Don't care."

"You will do when the helicopters start circling."

Arthur snorted as he tugged his shirt, still half-buttoned, off over his head. "We're not in a bloody Bond film, Emrys."

"I dunno, mate. Sure felt like it for a moment there. In the tunnel, when George…" Em trailed off, a fresh laugh bubbling up.

_"Don't,"_ Arthur warned, lips twitching. "God, Em, don’t get me started. My abs already feel like—owshite!" He lost his balance shimmying out of a trouser leg and bashed his bruised hip against the wall.

Em winced in sympathy. "Need a hand there?"

"No. What I need…" Arthur finally managed to free himself of both pants and trousers in one fell swoop, then quickly peeled off his socks and straightened up, pushing his hair back off his face. He had a brief flashback to the last time he'd stripped off here—the night of the red card and the blue butt plug—and grinned. "What I need, Emmett, is for you to bend me over something sturdy and get the fuck _in_ me already. Like…"

He shifted restlessly, gave his prick a squeeze. Em's eyes went from giving him a merry onceover to laser-focused and _yes right fucking there._

"You said however I want, right? Well, I want a redo on that night at Avalon. A proper hook-up."

"Sorry, I—" Em's gaze drifted up. "Arthur, what do you mean, exactly?"

"If I'd been _out,"_ Arthur said. "If we'd been strangers…"

He stepped closer, close enough to catch Em's false scent, the jumble of odours that clung to his clothing and masked the real man beneath—the dark hair, thick with musk, and all that glorious skin.

_Fuck,_ he thought, remembering the crisp white collar against the strong, corded neck, the faint sheen of sweat. _And the lip gloss._ He swallowed heavily, eyes roving over Em's face. He saw Em's nostrils flare, saw the flash of teeth worrying at his lower lip before he locked eyes with Arthur and nodded once. 

"You want me to use a condom?"

Arthur grimaced. He hadn’t thought of that. "No, not really. Can't we just, I don't know—"

"Anything," Em cut in, reaching for Arthur's hand where it was curled round his cock, running his fingers along the back of it. "We can do anything. We make the rules, remember?"

_Right,_ Arthur thought. _Our team. Whatever else happens, they can't fuck with that._

He had an urge to do what Kay had been making unsubtle jokes about for ages now and go down on his knees, to beg Em for something daft and hopeful like tattoos or piercings or some shit—something that would always be there, no matter how many miles of tarmac or saltwater came between them. Like the lip gloss, only closer. Skin close.

"We make the rules," he repeated. He glanced down to where he was holding himself and let go, huffing out a laugh. He was half-hard, pink cockhead poking out of its darker sheath. "Um, so apparently I go clubbing in the nude?"

"Suits me," Em murmured, winking.

Then he leaned back against the door, hips canted forward. Save for his hair—a certifiable wreck, both from his own worried fiddlings and the attentions of the squad—he was suddenly the fucking picture of nonchalance. He looked Arthur up and down, giving nothing away, then lifted an eyebrow.

"What's that you say, mate?"

"Arthur," he said, lowering his eyes. It came out hoarse and awkward, which was not at all what he'd intended. "I'm Arthur," he repeated, louder. "Arthur Pendragon. Been watching you all night."

He glanced up, and the blaze of approval on Em's face—of unconcealed _devotion,_ because that's what it was, too, he knew that now—made his heart leap.

He widened his stance and stood tall, hands clasped behind his back. He let himself look back, really look, pretending he'd never seen Em before and didn’t know what he was capable of, but—oh god yes, fucking _still_ —very much wanting to find out.

"And you're the best thing I've seen since forever, so how 'bout you make both our years by fucking me legless?"

"Cocky," Em murmured, rolling his eyes. "Brattish. _Clearly_ useless at chat-up lines. But the front view's not all bad." He pushed off from the door, unzipping his jacket. "What's the back like? Maybe if I saw it in action…" His smile was feral, quick; if Arthur had blinked he wouldn’t have seen it.

"Huh?"

"Turn around and start walking, _Arthur."_ Em lifted his chin, fluttering his fingers towards the flat beyond. "Hell, _run._ Go on now. Let's see if you're worth the lube."

Arthur let out a joyful whoop and took off, loping down the hallway. "Oi, which way's the back room in this place?" he called.

Em snorted. "New in town, eh? Try to your left."

* * *

Em never really chased him. He never broke his stride. He just stalked Arthur relentlessly throughout the flat—watching him, taunting him, calling out conflicting directions—until Arthur was beside himself, hard and flushed and frustrated as hell. On his next pass through the living room, he marched towards the sofa and draped himself over one end of it. 

He soon heard a rich chuckle. 

"Ah, I see you've found it."

Arthur looked back over his shoulder, reply sticking in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

Em had stripped off his jacket and shirt; his track pants rode low on his hips, now tented by an obscene bulge. Seeing where Arthur was looking, Em palmed it with one hand, fingertips curling in and pulling the fabric taut.

It was a crude gesture—crude and perfect—and Arthur was so caught up in the delightful _suggestion_ of it he almost missed the big pump bottle of lube dangling from Em's other hand. Which was…

Well, there was nothing just suggestive about lube, was there? Lube was all about practical application, about getting down to fucking business, so to speak. Arthur's thoughts lurched from _Hel-looo. Look at that christ that's hot he's hot he's so hard_ to _Ohgod, he's going to fuck me with that thing. Just fill me up and… Fuck._

Arthur shifted restlessly, cock dragging against the padded armrest. He resisted the urge to grind down.

Smirking, Em approached and balanced the lube on Arthur's back.

"Hey," Arthur managed, wondering what it meant that being used as a table of sorts wasn't a turn-off. At _all._

"Hey yourself." Em skimmed his hands gently over Arthur's hips before gripping his cheeks and spreading them apart. "Not bad," he said, tilting his head. "I suppose you'll do." He let go and gave Arthur's bum a solid smack. Then, without further ado, he simultaneously pumped out several gobs of lube with one hand while freeing his cock with the other.

He smeared the lube all down Arthur's crack and shuffled closer, rubbing his cock in the slick mess. It was cold—the lube, not Em's cock—and Arthur jerked forward, toppling the lube and earning himself him a sharp pinch just where his arse joined his thigh.

"Ow!"

"Shut up and hold still, sweet cheeks."

"But you—"

Em pinched him again, this time on the meat of his arse, murmuring, "Seriously, _hush._ I don't mind a mouthy bottom, but let a man have a moment with this… this glorious thing, yeah?"

He continued slowly rutting, dick pointed up so the head slid along Arthur's lower back, so close and yet bloody _miles_ away from where Arthur wanted it. Every stroke increased the craving, the aching tension in his thighs, until he was practically trembling. He dropped his head and tried to take steadying breaths, but it was no good. He was _this_ close to begging when, with no warning, Em slipped a thumb inside his hole.

On the next downstroke, the shiver of anticipation was gone, replaced by something blunt and thick alongside the thumb, prodding, pushing inside the loosening ring of muscle. The weight of the lube bottle disappeared. Arthur heard a muffled _thwack_ as it hit the opposite end of the sofa, followed by Em's hoarse, reverent, "Jaysus _fuck"_ as he eased his thumb out and his cock in.

Arthur grunted. He arched his back as Em manhandled him—grasping and tugging and spreading and _ohgod_ bearing down—until his arse was snugged up against Em's body and his prick was trapped against the armrest. Hot, pinioned, wound tight as a spring, he sucked in a shallow breath and wondered if it was possible to come from sheer impatience. He wanted to thrust back, to jerk his hips forward, to get some kind of bloody _movement_ or—

"Alright?" Em said. His voice—hoarse, tight—was much like his grip, which Arthur found oddly comforting because it meant he wasn't the only one struggling to keep still. He braced his weight on one arm and reached back, fumbling until he found and covered Em's hand with his own.

They stayed like that for a long moment, barely breathing. Then Em exhaled, eased back and, with an audible, squelching _slap_ of flesh, set about balling Arthur into the sofa.

The ache of the wait evaporated, replaced by a new kind of impatience: wanting to come, wanting to feel Em come, wanting _not_ to come, wanting to stay locked in this punishing, brilliant embrace for a little while longer, to let the joy build and _build,_ sparking along every nerve. Arthur pushed back when he could, but otherwise just took it, one hard thrust after another, panting his approval into the seat cushions.

When Em got the angle _and_ the tempo just right, he might even have howled a bit—or maybe it was more of a tortured yodel but, either way, it was stupid and loud and Arthur didn’t care because it felt _magnificent._ He felt himself tipping over the edge, little dribbling pulses creaming the armrest when his dick could get a bit of breathing room between Em's thrusts.

_Shit. Should have used a towel,_ Arthur thought. Then he started laughing, realising that he could afford to have the sofa cleaned ten different ways—or could buy ten new sofas if it came down to it—and that it really, _really_ didn’t matter in the scheme of things.

Em pistoned through his own orgasm with a harsh shout, not slowing his pace until he'd fully spent himself. When his prick began to soften, he pulled out and pressed the pads of his fingers to Arthur's hole; then he slumped over his back with a mighty exhale.

"What even… are you some kind of sex hyena?" he panted. His hands seemed to be everywhere, stroking Arthur's neck and hair, rubbing the leaking cum and lube back into the tender skin between his legs.

"Ngh." Arthur twitched helplessly. Between those fingers and the drag and suck of sticky leather, there was no escape from the stimulation.

Em hummed an apology, pulling his fingers away from Arthur's hole. He broadened his strokes until he was rubbing circles over Arthur's arse and upper thighs which, in spite of the awkward position, actually felt soothing.

Arthur sighed and turned his face, managing to get out a halfway-intelligible, "Cheers. Beah?"

"Bed? Yes, _please."_ Em levered himself up with a grunt. "Only… Ugh. Fucking _Kay._ I think I've still got champagne and biscuit crumbs in all my crannies. Fancy another shower?"

Arthur pushed up as well, wincing. "Will I have to move much?"

"Nah, just prop yourself up against the wall and look pretty. I'll take care of the rest."

"Ace." Arthur shuffled round and draped himself over Em, mouthing kisses on one flaming red ear and the faint stubble along his jaw. "I c'n do that. Let's go. Keep rubbing my bum though. That feels good."

They made it only two steps before winding up in a heap on the floor, both of them having apparently forgotten about Em's track pants, now pooled around his ankles.

"Ouf! Arthur, what the—"

Arthur snickered into the carpet. "What did I tell you, Emrys? Legless."

* * *

By the time they sorted their respective limbs and stood, it was clear that the day had finally, and firmly, caught up with them.

"Nah, it's no use," Arthur said, shaking his head. "I don't fancy it."

"What?" Em bent to pull up his track pants.

"This… being _up_ thing. Standing."

_"Ow."_ Em grimaced as the waistband dragged over his raw, wet prick. "Agreed. C'mon, let's—" His face split open in a huge yawn as he gestured towards the bedroom.

They shared a quick shower. Arthur revived a bit under the warm spray, but Em nearly dozed off while scrubbing Arthur's back. Afterwards, he barely managed to pull the duvet aside before Em belly-flopped onto the bed, apologising to it for his recent neglect and telling it how much he'd missed its charms.

Though Arthur had risen from it only that morning, he knew how Em felt. He rearranged the pillows happily, dragging them all towards the centre, side by side. But when he tried to drag Em closer too, he was rebuffed with a flailing arm.

"G'way. We're having a moment."

"We?"

Em hummed, rubbing his face against the fitted sheet and stroking it with his fingertips. He mumbled something unintelligible, then turned his head, blinking up at Arthur. "My bed is complete and utter shite compared to yours. How do you stand it?"

This time Arthur met with no resistance as he scooted down and drew Em near, rolling him over, sliding halfway on top and arranging their limbs into a tight, pleasing tangle. For once, Em was nude without Arthur's asking, having flung his towel aside before diving onto the bed. Arthur didn't know if this was significant somehow or down to sheer exhaustion, but he wasn't about to question it.

"I don't," he said, toying with a damp, silky swirl of Em's armpit hair. "I hate your bed. But I fancy the bloke who sleeps in it something rotten." He paused, peering up. From this angle, Em's face was a series of peaks: nose, chin, Adam's apple. Arthur brought his finger up to tap each one, then ran it along a high ridge of cheekbone. "And soon," he whispered, "the whole world will know."

Em turned his head so fast Arthur nearly gouged him in the eye. "You bitched to Mordred about my _bed?"_

"What? No, I meant—" He saw Em's lazy wink and poked him, hard, on the cheek. Em snapped at his finger; Arthur snatched it away with a wounded, "Hey!"

"Brute."

"Cannibal."

Em smiled as he closed his eyes. He tightened his arms round Arthur, jostling him until he relaxed back into place, head pillowed on Em's chest.

"So, you're really going to make me wait and read it in the papers, along with all the punters?"

"Yep."

Em yawned. "Cagey bastard."

"Yep." Remembering Mordred's words, _"You hardly need my help to hang yourself on this one,"_ Arthur frowned. He slid his hand down Em's side, following the swath of smooth skin until he reached the bony jut of his hip, and held on.

* * *

Arthur jerked awake in the night, clammy with sweat. Even his face felt damp and sticky, which was—

"Groff," Em mumbled, stirring. "Narms."

"Wherzat?" Smacking his lips, Arthur realised that the _reason_ his face felt damp was because he'd been drooling all over Em's stomach. He groped for the hem of Em's T-shirt, but there was no T-shirt to be found.

_'Cause he's naked,_ Arthur remembered, smiling. _He's here._ He wiped his face with his arm and shifted up, resettling on a dry patch of skin. Em grunted and began thrashing about in earnest.

"Shove _off._ Canna feel my arms."

With a huff—and what felt like a tremendous amount of effort—Arthur disentangled himself and rolled away to his side of the bed, thinking that, if Em was going to be such a fussy pillow, he'd best not mention the drool.


	48. Sunday Supplement

By morning, they'd met back in the middle. Arthur woke to a warm back and bum pressed against his own, and one chilly foot planted on the meat of his calf. He had only a moment to savour the sensation—odd, though not in the least unwelcome—before he registered _why_ he'd woken up.

One, his bladder was screaming at him. Two, the security panel out in the hall was also screaming at him—or rather, it was emitting the high-pitched trill that signalled the lobby wanted a word. They'd neglected to close the bedroom door, so the sound carried plainly, piercing the room along with an insolent shaft of daylight.

_What the fuck?_ Arthur thought. He didn't know anyone who would drop by unannounced of a Sunday morning. He scrambled out of bed, flinching as the cooler air hit his skin and his muscles protested their recent hard use, both on-pitch and off.

Em made a sleepy, querulous noise and rolled over, expanding into the space Arthur had occupied. Arthur tugged the duvet up over his shoulders and hastened out into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him.

He ducked into the guest bathroom first, pissing for what felt like ages as the trilling stopped, then started up again. A moment later it was joined by the muffled ringing of his mobile, followed by a sharp rap on the door.

"Seriously, what the fuck?" Arthur muttered as he shook himself off.

Blinking in the cheery wash of sunlight—helicopters or no, he should have listened to Em about the shades—he hurried towards the door. A discarded shoe nearly sent him sprawling. He flung it aside, cursing, then realised he was about to open the door in the stark raving nude.

"One moment," he called, wheeling about. He searched the scatter of clothes, following the muffled ringing to last night's trousers. As he pulled them on, the pocket ceased ringing. Arthur checked the display, which showed the call was from Hector's office. A quick scroll through indicated several such missed calls, and dozens of new voicemails.

"Mister Pendragon?" It was a man's voice, studied, tense. There was another round of knocking, accompanied by a hesitant, "Sir? I've been sent by security."

Worried now, Arthur jammed the phone back in his pocket.

"Yes, I'm—hang on!" He kicked the rest of the discarded clothing into the coat closet and smashed keys on the security panel until it stopped its blasted trilling.

As he undid the deadbolt, he wondered for a brief moment if he should have spoken to lobby security _first,_ just in case some nutter had got past them and made it up to his floor. But the whole point of living in a luxury tower block was that that sort of thing didn’t happen, right? Even Morgana had to show ID before they'd let her in the lifts, and…

"Yes?" To his relief, Arthur recognised the man as the night porter, just come off duty, by the look of it. He radiated weariness—head bowed, shoulders slumped—and his uniform jacket had been swapped for one of black leather. A matching holdall rested near his feet, an umbrella and rolled newspapers tucked between the handles.

"So sorry, sir, to disturb you, but there is… There is a bit of what you'd call a situation, and they couldn't reach you on the intercom." He glanced up.

"Is it a fire?" Arthur felt like an idiot as soon as he'd said it. Luxury or no, his building had alarms and suppression systems, same as everywhere else. They wouldn't send an off-duty porter round to personally evacuate him.

"No sir. No immediate danger. But they won't leave. The lobby, service entrance—all surrounded. We are calling in police, _real_ police. You should stay here until—"

"Real police?" Arthur cut in, suddenly wide awake. "Sorry, what exactly is going on here?"

"Paparazzi, sir. Many, many cameras. And then there are the, ah…" The porter rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at the carpet as if the word he was searching for was woven into the fibres. "Strippers," he concluded. "But not, I think, the nice sort."

_"What?"_

"All men," the porter said mournfully. "In fancy dress. Firemen, police, cowboys… a clown with naughty balloons. All booked to your flat, sir, prepaid. First few, we figure is joke by your mates to do with article in today's paper, yah?" He glanced towards the holdall.

"Security ring up to check, but in the meantime, paparazzi arrive, then more men—more men, more costumes, more cameras. Is disturbing the other residents, so we call police."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, trying to process the man's words. However, the first thought that popped into his head was, _Where on earth do you find that many strippers on a Sunday morning?_

His second thought was, _I'm going to murder Gwaine. Or Kay, or… goddamn fucking Mordred!_

Arthur sighed. "I think you'd best come in for a cup of tea."

The man tried to protest, but Arthur stepped back from the doorway and waved him in impatiently, adding, "No, no, let's sort this out. Have you eaten? I can do you eggs and toast after I—"

"Arthur, who is it?"

Em was at the end of the entry hall, face still scrunched with sleep. He'd donned his track pants and the wrinkled "I Heart Guts" T-shirt Arthur _thought_ he'd had well-hidden in one of his pillowcases. He blinked when he saw the porter, then smiled.

"Oh. Hiya, Jacek."

"Good morning, doc."

"What's the trouble?"

Arthur looked between them in disbelief—because Em would bloody well know the man's _name,_ wouldn’t he—and said, "Strippers, apparently. And the paps."

Jacek nodded stiffly in confirmation.

Em's smile stretched even wider, into something a bit crazed. He scratched his head. "Ah, okay… So, tea? I'll put the kettle on. Arthur, you’d best do something about that before it goes nuclear." He pointed to the security panel, which, unhappy at being silenced, was now flashing an alarming array of red and amber lights.

Arthur turned and lifted the handset. As he began punching keys, he heard Em say, "How's the shoulder? Did you—hey, is that the latest _Echo?"_

Arthur felt a little flutter of panic. He was midway through confirming that he was not expecting any company, prepaid or no, when a lusty peal of laughter erupted from the kitchen.

_Shit. What?_ Arthur thought, the panic ceasing its coy fluttering and giving a sharp yank on his vitals. _He can't have even read it yet._

He pressed his forehead against the wall, listening to security reassuring him that constables were on their way and repeating Jacek's message about staying put. Then, with impeccable timing, his mobile began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket and saw that it was his father.

_Shit shit shit._

Arthur let the call go to voicemail and shoved the phone back in his pocket. Closing his eyes, he began to thud his head gently against the wall. He had more than a sneaking suspicion that he was not going to get to spend the day in bed collecting on the remainder of his hat-trick sex, even if his flat were under siege by an entire squadron of strippers.

* * *

The source of Em's amusement was immediately apparent as soon as Arthur entered the kitchen. It was his face—Arthur's, that was—gracing the front page of the _Sunday Echo._

Actually, gracing probably wasn't the best word for it. It was a close-up head shot of him celebrating a goal. His hands were up by his ears, fingers spread. No doubt he'd been going for a perfectly legit double high-five with Elyan or Gwaine, but captured like this he looked demented. His hair was sweat-styled, a great hank of it sticking up on one side. His eyes bulged above flaring nostrils and a wide, toothy grin.

"NO GAYS IN FOOTBALL?" the headline read, followed by, "EXCLUSIVE: Camelot's golden boy is ignoring the taboo on coming out in the top leagues, and he wants to tell you why."

_Ta-fucking-da!_ Arthur thought, cringing. He plucked the paper out of Em's hands and retreated to a corner of the kitchen, where he skimmed the article while fending Em off with a spatula, much to Jacek's amusement. (Or consternation. Arthur couldn’t quite get a read on the man.)

But apart from the headline and laughable photo—which, to be fair, Arthur hadn’t thought to specify—it was all there, from the opening confession to the closing challenge. Mordred had limited his editorialising to a brief introductory paragraph, and even that was tame by the man's usual standards. He'd kept his end of the bargain… at least in this.

"Um, Arthur?"

Arthur whipped the paper behind his back, suddenly shy of his own words, wanting to delay Em reading them until… well, until later. Until he wasn't morning-raw and befuddled and feeling like a bit of a stranger in his own kitchen.

Then he clocked the fact that Em was no longer trying to grab the paper; instead, he was staring down at his own mobile, eyes wide.

"What is it?"

"It's Will. They're at mine as well. The paps, and the _strippers._ They…" Em glanced up, looking pained. "Oh my god, Arthur, there are oodles of hot strippers banging down the door to my flat and I'm _not there to see."_

He began furiously texting, muttering something about Freya's Polaroid.

Arthur heard Jacek clear his throat. He looked over in time to see the man shifting awkwardly on his stool, teacup clutched between his hands.

"Perhaps I should—"

_Oh no you don't,_ Arthur thought, discomfort burning away in a blaze of anger. _I may be a rich, arrogant fuck, but he knows your name. I'll bet he knows your whole goddamn story, asks after your wife or kids or whatever while you're checking his ID._

"Breakfast!" he said, raising the spatula and forcing a smile he didn’t feel. "Or supper for you, more like; christ, you must be all in, dealing with this after being on duty all night. Eggs alright, or would you prefer a—"

"Toasties," Em piped up, still engrossed in his phone.

"—sandwich," Arthur finished, ignoring Em.

_"Toasties,"_ Em insisted, nudging Arthur's foot with his own. "A man likes something hot and greasy after a long shift."

Arthur looked over, unable to keep the affection out of his voice as he muttered, "You're just saying that 'cause _you_ want toasties."

Em looked up, eyes bright, and shrugged. "True. Not saying you have to make them though. I'm happy to."

"Fine." Arthur lowered the spatula—lowered his guard, too, apparently, as Em darted round him before he could blink, grabbed the paper, and backed away, holding it aloft.

_"After_ I read the article, golden boy."

Jacek, who'd been following the exchange with a puzzled expression, suddenly let loose with a booming laugh.

Startled, Arthur dropped the spatula. Em backed away even further, laughing too, as if it were contagious.

Jacek snicked his cup back into its saucer. His smile—broad and even, with a charming gap between his two front teeth—erased the hangdog look he'd been sporting since he'd arrived.

"You two," he said, lifting a finger and prodding the air between them. "Just like my brother and his wife." He waggled the finger at Arthur. "Beg your pardon, sir, but all this time. No big parties. No ladies in the night… I wonder, I think you must be very boring, very sad. And very lonely for the poor doc here, chasing after the wrong tree."

He beamed at them for a moment. Then he held up his hands, smile fading. "I say nothing, of course. This nonsense downstairs, it isn't… I say _nothing."_

"I know," Arthur reassured him. Feeling wrong-footed, he crouched to pick up the fallen spatula and tossed it in the sink. "And thank you. I know you must have had offers. Not that you would ever… I mean…"

"Sir?" Jacek said, just as Em said, "Um, Arthur?"

Arthur looked up to find them both staring at something over his shoulder. He whirled round, half-expecting to find a reporter hanging out of a cupboard, even though his rational brain told him it was more likely that the kettle had boiled dry.

He wasn't the least prepared for the sight that greeted him on the kitchen telly. Gone were the familiar talking heads gathered round a breakfast table; instead, there was a grainy image of a small crowd outside the Citadel, jumping about and waving their arms in unison, singing…

Well, the sound was off, so Arthur had no idea _what_ they were singing, but there was no mistaking what they were wearing, nor the giant rainbow flag draped round the shoulders of the great dragon statue.

_So much for low-key,_ Arthur thought as men wearing his replica kit or in various stages of drag swarmed round the statue, strutting and swinging their hips as a few bemused tourists looked on.

Em lifted the remote, unmuted the sound in time for them all to hear a lusty chorus of Bowie's "Boys Keep Swinging" before the clip ended and the screen cut back to four strained faces staring manfully at their coffee cups.

Then _everyone's_ mobiles starting ringing, and everything got more than a bit hectic.

The newspaper lay temporarily forgotten on the worktop, 2D Arthur making his absurd jazzhands up at the track lighting.


	49. Shadow Support

Someone, and all Arthur's money was on Mordred by this point, had gone to great pains to throw him a very public coming out party. In addition to the strippers and the flash mobs, rainbow stickers had mysteriously appeared on Arthur's more prominent Excalibur billboards around Camelot. The one in the city centre had been defaced—or enhanced, depending on whom you asked—with a crudely-painted chest harness and biker cap (Em was pro-harness and anti-cap, but disdainful of the overall execution).

Between the paps, who said they'd been tipped off by anonymous texts, and the snap-happy citizens of Camelot, the images were online within minutes.

Purely as a prank, it was clever—hilarious even—but it was also the exact opposite of what Arthur had promised. "Boring," he'd reassured George. "Mate, I swear, it'll be the most boring player confessional you've ever read."

It was no wonder, then, that he'd been ordered to take a couple days off, to lie low until the club could get a handle on the situation. Arthur had been on the verge of telling everyone they could go fuck themselves, but Coach had given his word he fully intended to start Arthur on Saturday, missed training or no. Then Hunith had rung Em, concerned about Arthur and…

Well, the _short_ version was that Jacek had helped sneak them out of the building, and now they were in Ealdor.

"Fuck me! Arthur, that was…" Em bowed his head, running his hands through his hair and shaking out the bits of straw.

"Terrifying?" Arthur muttered, swiping at his own head. "Itchy?"

Now they were in the Dragon's Egg, to be precise, hiding in the secret passage behind the bar. _Hiding_ because some clever clogs journos had remembered Em's Ealdor connection from Mordred's previous article and pitched up in the village on the off chance—but that was getting into the _long_ version, which involved multiple ruses and vehicle swaps (and even a bit of a Pythonesque car chase involving a van full of nuns who'd thought he was being kidnapped), and resulted in them both having straw in uncomfortable places.

"I was going to say _insane."_ Em lifted his face. Even in the dusty half-light, Arthur could see the mess of smile lines, the mischievous gleam in his eyes. "It's like playing at spies, yeah? But for real. Who doesn't fancy that?"

"I have never fancied riding in a car boot, Emrys," Arthur grumbled, fishing another piece of straw from his collar. He held it up accusingly before Em's nose. "Or a bloody hay wagon. What century is this?"

Em flicked the straw to the ground, chortling, "I can't believe that actually worked."

"We don't know that it _has,"_ Arthur countered. "Are you sure your mum knows—"

There was a tap on the passage door, followed by three more in quick succession.

Huffing, Em nudged Arthur aside and knelt down before the door. He opened it a crack and began a rapid whispered conversation.

Peering over his shoulder, Arthur saw a sliver of flame-coloured hair, which eased his mind somewhat. Callie's grandniece had gone with Hunith in the M3. If she was back safe, at least they hadn’t crashed.

Whether or not his gearbox had survived was anyone's guess though. The terrain around Ealdor was awfully hilly, and when Arthur had handed over the keys out at the crossing, the gleam in Hunith's eyes had been as worrying as it was familiar.

He'd tried telling himself that Hunith would no more mistreat his car than Em would his toastie maker, but it had been a long, bumpy ride down into the village. He'd had plenty of time for his imagination to run away with itself.

Em shut the door and looked up over his shoulder. "You can quit breathing down my neck now. Dorrie says we're golden. No one saw. As far as they know we never left Camelot."

Arthur backed away, but couldn’t resist asking, "And my car?"

"Lives to fight another day. Mam's just stashing it now." Em pushed back onto the balls of his feet and stood, reaching for Arthur. He started brushing down his jumper with a small frown. "You should really have more faith in her, you know. She's been driving these hills since before you were born."

"Not in precision German engineering. And I'll bet that leggy ginger fiddled with your seat settings."

Em paused in his grooming, clutching at Arthur's chest. "No," he whispered.

"Yes." Arthur nodded. "I can make it better, of course, but I really think we should go check and—"

"Nope. Can't." Em shook his head and slipped his arms round Arthur's waist. "Have to keep out of sight."

"Why?"

"Because," Em said, glancing towards the door, "a few of them are still out there, in the pub. Decided to have the Sunday roast before they leave."

Arthur blew out a frustrated breath. "Can't your mum tell them the kitchen's closed or something?"

"That'd look suspicious, given the local crowd stuffing their faces." Em snickered. "More like she'll tell them there's no more lamb, smile, and charge them an arm and a leg for watered-down ale and a plate of hash. Besides, I thought you'd be _pleased."_

"Pleased?" Arthur clasped Em's shoulders. "I wanted to spend the day with _you,_ in _bed,_ doing every filthy thing you promised me yesterday, then eating our way through the city centre. Instead, we're playing silly buggers over hill and dale and hiding in a pub wall, waiting… um."

"Waiting, yes," Em said, nodding. "Here at my mam's pub, that is also sometimes an _inn._ With, you know—"

"Rooms!" Arthur cut in. "Rooms with _beds."_ He looked Em over, leering, grinning.

"Aw, penny's finally dropped, has it?" Em whispered. He pressed his lips to the corner of Arthur's mouth, the barest hint of a kiss.

"Oh god let's hope the bastards— _Emmett,_ c'mere you fucking tease—let's hope they stick around for pudding," Arthur replied, diving in for the genuine article. It was a proper lip-locking, spit-swapping, bum-groping affair, which wasn't easy to do while trying to haul a grown man up a narrow flight of stairs.

* * *

The last of said bastards, Arthur later learned, cleared off by four. He and Em didn't emerge until half-past, and even then it was only to sneak bottled water and crisps from behind the bar while Dorrie tried to keep a straight face on for the customers.

Arthur wasn't sure he'd ever achieve porn-star class as a top. The sight of Em on his belly, fidgeting with his arse upturned and thighs spread, offering himself—urging Arthur to "fucking get over here, darling, and have me already"—was almost too much. As were the whispered endearments, as tender as the kisses were fierce, delivered over one pale shoulder.

The second time, Arthur managed to last long enough to see Em through one of his protracted, gibberish-spouting orgasms, which wasn't easy with the way Em _moved_ under him, tense and squirming and so fucking _tight,_ like he was trying to pull Arthur's dick off, pull Arthur all the way up inside… and yes, alright, so maybe Arthur spouted some gibberish of his own. After all, he didn't _really_ want to live in Em's arse, but they both agreed it was an awfully nice place to visit from time to time. Like Ealdor.

"Shit, shit, shit," Em said, flinging an arm over his eyes. "Now I'm going to have inappropriate thoughts every time Mam asks when we're coming for a visit."

"I'll give you inappropriate thoughts," Arthur murmured, nosing at the musky, sweat-damp curls round the base of Em's cock. "When are you going to come on my face?"

* * *

At last, thoroughly shagged out and desperate for a proper meal—or at least something more substantial than cum and crisps—they bathed, dressed, and crept downstairs. Em went first, telling Arthur to wait for the all-clear.

Arthur crouched behind the hidden door and waited. And waited. He could hear laughter, a welter of voices. Maybe one of them was Em's, but he wasn't sure. He'd lifted a hand to ease the door open when suddenly it swung away, and he found himself staring at a pair of shapely calves encased in grass green stockings.

"You can come out now, love," Hunith said. "Em didn't forget you; he's been hijacked by Father Dunne for a consult. His bursitis is acting up."

Arthur tumbled out with as much dignity as he could muster (which wasn't much) and stood. Hunith regarded him with an all-too-knowing smile.

"There's a plate for you in the snug. You must be starving, what with the day you've had."

Arthur tried not to think about Hunith thinking about what _sort_ of day he'd had. Up in a room. In her inn. With her son.

"Thank you," he said, warmth flooding his cheeks. "For putting us up—well, for everything, really. I'm sorry I've brought the circus to your door."

"Tch." Hunith patted his chest. "Most fun I've had all week, and I've told you Ealdor keeps its secrets. Besides…" She reached for something on the bar, held it up before Arthur. It was a copy of the _Sunday Echo._ It looked as if it had done the rounds in the pub, covered in damp ring stains and smudges of mint sauce.

"I'd like a word. Come on. You can eat while I talk."

Arthur followed Hunith warily, unsure whether he was up for more teasing (Em had been merciless in the car, alternating between reading bits aloud in a tragic movie trailer voice and staring at him with big, earnest eyes) or an interrogation. He caught Em's eye as he passed and sent him a pleading look. Em, trapped at a table of older men and prodding at a pale, fleshy leg that had been shoved in his lap, sent him a pleading look right back.

"A private word," Hunith amended, shaking her head at her son and making a shooing motion. "I already assured him it had nothing to do with sex or babies or embarrassing childhood stories, and that he'd have you back in one piece."

Arthur felt his blush deepen as he slid into the snug. "Ah. Right. This looks fantastic, by the way." He nodded at the plate, clearly a sampler of the day's leftovers, but lovingly arranged, dressed up with cherry tomatoes and sprigs of fresh herbs.

Hunith smiled as she settled across from him. "Well, don't get lost in the looking. Tuck in."

She opened the paper to his article and smoothed it onto the table. "And Em's reminded me you're in training, so if there's anything you can’t eat you needn't worry about offending me. Just set it aside and it'll go to the village cats. Or Doreen's Shelties, poor things. Do you know, since that girl started working here I swear those dogs have doubled in size. I suppose I ought to have a word. Bad for their hearts, isn't it?"

Arthur nodded hesitantly, mouth full of roast lamb and potato. He couldn't tell if the small talk was meant to set him at ease, or if this was some sort of test.

"Well," he said after swallowing, "the Shelties have nothing to fear from me."

He did not add that, after the gruelling amount of sex he'd just had, he figured he could eat whatever he liked. He made a mental note to check with Em. No doubt he knew exactly how many calories they'd burned, and with which specific acts. Hell, he could probably write a book on the subject: _The Emrys Pocket Guide to Sexercise._

Arthur ducked his head, hiding a guilty smile with another mouthful of food.

Hunith smiled again, toying with the edges of the paper. "So," she said, "your father rang me this morning, after he'd seen this."

Arthur paused mid-chew.

"He wanted to know if it ever gets any easier, letting go."

Arthur swallowed and set down his cutlery. "Letting go of what?"

"One's children. Watching them march off and make fools of themselves."

Arthur blanched. "Fools? He has no right—"

"Arthur, no," Hunith cut in. She reached for his hand and clasped it between her own. "He wasn't being cruel. He loves you, and he's very proud of you, but he's never going to... well, have the same priorities. Do you see that?"

"Yes." Arthur nodded, tight-lipped. "But still, he had no right to be ringing you, spouting that kind of… stuff."

"Actually, dear, he has every right. I gave him my number, that night in hospital. Told him to ring me if he ever wanted to talk, as I had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't the sort to go joining PFLAG. Never thought he'd stoop to it, to be honest, but I did offer, and we've had some interesting chats, so…"

Hunith squeezed his hand, then let it go, urging, "Please, eat. I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know that—well, with all the subsequent shenanigans the mood may have been lost, but he was very affected by what you wrote. In his own way. As was I."

She looked down at the newsprint, expression melting into something fond. "You say football taught you how to be a man, but that my son— _loving_ my son—is teaching you how to be a _whole_ one, a better one."

Arthur nodded tersely. As with Em in the car earlier, the words sounded cheap aloud, laughable. Like a bad film. But that was how he truly _felt,_ so there wasn't much to be done, and…

_What did she mean, "interesting chats"? How many chats have there been?_

"Arthur?"

"Hmm?"

She looked up, waiting until she had his full attention. "I've had my doubts, to be honest. Not so much about _you,_ as the world you come from. However…"

She tapped the newsprint. "This took great courage, great heart—no, love, no need to be embarrassed. There is not a mother in the _world_ who doesn't want to hear such flattery about their child, to know that even half the worry and fuss you put into them is being visited on someone else.

"And anyone with eyes can see you're all in, so I want to repeat what I said back in December: You've always a welcome here. Even if you just need to get away for a bit or—god forbid—my son's being an idiot. I'm claiming you, same as I did Will, which means only I can disinvite you, understood?"

Arthur set down his knife and fork and once more reached for Hunith's hand. "Understood," he said softly. "And thank you. That's… I've never had… You're my first mum."

"It's my pleasure, love," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. She glanced down at the article. "Just, be careful out there, all right? Your father and I—"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Arthur looked up to see Em's head peering in at the snug door. He waggled his eyebrows when he noticed their joined hands, then slipped inside.

"Yes? Well, too bad. Reverend Davies and his lateral epicondylitis just turned up to argue the finer points of cuniculture, and I seek asylum on the grounds of deeply-held lack of interest."

"What?" Arthur said as Em slid in beside him.

"Rabbit breeding." Em nudged him until he shoved over. "Plus, I'm off-duty. Haven't you peasants heard of the NHS?"

"Emmett!" Hunith scolded, pulling back and wiping surreptitiously at her eyes. "Don't be rude."

"Sorry, Mam."

"And this is a _private_ conversation."

Em looked between the two of them with interest. "Yeah? What about?"

"Honestly," Hunith muttered, shaking her head. She gave Em one of those unimpressed looks, the kind that made Arthur feel like a puppy sitting in a puddle of its own wee when the door had been open the whole time, but Em only shrugged and turned expectantly towards Arthur.

"Well?" He snagged a tomato and a chunk of roast potato and popped them both in his mouth, chewing with eyes half-closed. " 'M shtarved."

Arthur cleared his throat. "She says I can come here whenever I want," he said, shielding his plate and sliding it out of reach. "Full privileges, Will-style. Which means I don't need you anymore."

Em's eyes flew open. "What?"

"What yourself," Hunith retorted. "He's _polite_ to his elders, doesn't eat with his _hands,_ and that car of his is sheer sex."

"Mam!"

* * *

Em and his mum, Arthur noted, bickered in a well-worn, good-natured fashion—all hand gestures, quirked lips and flashing eyes. He took great delight in teaming up with Hunith, taking her part even as he sought as much contact as possible with Em under the table—a friendly battle of trainers and knees and hands on thighs.

Every so often, though, Arthur would see Hunith's gaze dipping to the article on the table. When she caught him looking, she'd give him a quick, brave smile, and his chest would tighten up a little, wondering what she was thinking, what she'd read between the lines.

When she started making noises about "leaving them to it," Arthur screwed up his courage and said, "Hunith, wait."

"Yes, dear?"

"What do the two of you talk about? Apart from what an arse I'm making of myself?"

Hunith sighed, her gaze darting to Em. "It's rather… personal," she said at last.

Arthur noted a wordless exchange between mother and son—a furrowing of foreheads, a tightening of mouths. Em folded the napkin he'd nicked off Arthur and placed it carefully on the table.

"Ah, well, assuming the two of you aren't swapping stock tips or recipes, then I expect it's about the dead ones."

"Sorry?" Arthur said, just as Hunith shook her head, murmuring, "Emmett, really."

Em glanced over. "Your mother, my father."

"Oh." Arthur certainly hadn't seen that coming. He could count on his fingers the number of times Em had mentioned his father, could count on less than that the number of times he'd pressed for more information. It had just been this nice, fucked-up parallel between them, each of them with a single parent. He'd certainly never dreamed said parents would ever _chat_ about it.

He was sunk deep in his thoughts when Em startled him with a hasty cheek-kiss and a murmured, "Need more food, back in a tick."

Once he was gone, Hunith busied herself refolding the newspaper. She produced a disposable lighter from her apron pocket and lit the votive in its emerald thumbprint glass, lining it up like soldiers with the salt and a stack of beer mats. Arthur knew it was an invitation, if not an outright plea, to change the subject, but desperation made him bold. Dammit, he _needed_ to know.

"So, he… but he won't even talk to _me._ I mean, he has a bit, since the injury, but…" His clumsy gesture caught his glass at an odd angle. It skidded across the table, the remaining milk sloshing high up the sides.

Hunith's hand shot out to grab it. "Grief's a funny beast, love, makes us do all sorts." She tore her gaze from the glass, searching Arthur's face. "That day, in the parlour, when you told me about your mother's picture—you'd noticed what was missing."

"Well," he began, flustered. Hunith cut him off with a knowing look, then tucked the milk back into his floundering hand.

"You were looking for a picture of Em's father. Wondering what he'd done, or if I even knew his name?"

Arthur swallowed, nodded.

"Well, I did. And I loved him something fierce, which is why I was so furious when he was… when he died."

To Arthur's surprise, Hunith gave him a blinding smile, then shrugged. "Your father locked his heartbreak up in a drawer. Me, I got angry and burnt everything—photos, letters, ticket stubs, those ridiculous scarves—told everyone not to mention his name if they expected to drink here."

She shook her head, laughing ruefully. "I regretted it, of course, but by then everyone in the village was well-trained, and Em didn't know to ask. He had his Uncle John about, when he wasn't off on a long haul, and Will didn't have a father either, so…" She spread her hands.

_Ticket stubs,_ Arthur thought in a cartoon light bulb moment, all of Hunith's previous wariness over football slotting into place. _Those ridiculous scarves…_

"He was a—sorry, I don’t even know his name—but he was a supporter, then?"

Hunith sighed and slumped back against the snug wall, blinking. She tucked her hands in her apron pockets. "Incurable."

Arthur opened his mouth to make a quip about football widows, (wisely) reconsidered, and took a sip of milk instead.

"Eamon." Hunith's almost-smile was achingly familiar. "Eamon O'Balin of Donegal." She caught Arthur's eye, let her smile blossom into roughly half the real thing. "Not," she added, putting on a higher, breathy voice, "to be confused with those dreadful O'Baoills."

The accent was pure Lemmie, or perhaps more like what Arthur imagined Lemmie's gran would sound like. Or Lemmie attempting drag. He burst out laughing. Hunith began to chuckle as well, cheeks pink and shoulders quivering.

"Oh lord, do you know, I haven't done the mother-in-law in ages. Used to give Eamon a fit of the knee slaps, daft man." She withdrew a hand from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

"Do you know, he once piled _twenty_ of his mates into our old flat to watch when the gates were sold out and everyone was too skint for the pub? Cupboards bare, plumbing blocked—and I'd never heard such wailing as when the Raven missed that penalty against Dumbarton."

Arthur did a sort of spit-take over a fresh sip of milk, dribbling it all down his chin and onto the table. "The Rav—you mean, _Uriens?"_

For some reason he'd assumed Em's father had supported the local side, wondered—a bit unkindly—that they'd _ever_ sold out a match, given how consistently crap they'd been for the past century. But Uriens, Raven of the North, had been a _Camelot_ legend, a rare one-club man whose image still hung in the boot room and (less prestigiously) presided over the novelties section of the club shop.

"He supported Camelot?"

Hunith nodded as she handed Arthur his napkin.

"Yes, love. Diehard Dragonlord, actually. Used to help edit the _Once and Future Zine."_

"The… he," Arthur spluttered, wiping his face. "That's…"

He'd read the _Once and Future Zine_ slavishly as a boy, whenever he could get his hands on it (which had been surprisingly difficult in his household, though perhaps not so surprising, given its anti-management flavour). There had been a camp gossip feature titled "From the Dragon's Mouth" and little tearaway sections with illustrated breakdowns of the week's best match action. It had disappeared in the late 90s after the worst of the Mercian riots; the recent online reincarnation was much more polished and much less fun.

He nearly knocked his glass over again mopping up the milk on the table.

"Goodness," Hunith said, eyebrows arching in an alarming, Coach-like manner.

"Does Em _know?"_ Arthur finally managed. "I mean, because that is seriously brilliant!"

"Is it?" Hunith's expression had gone from alarmed to vaguely puzzled.

"Yes." Arthur nodded vigorously for good measure, thinking, _It's fucking fate, is what. It means he was born to be my number one fan, and I don’t plan on letting him forget it._

"Well, I don’t know." Hunith frowned. "I've never said… though lord knows what his uncle's told him."

"Can I tell him?"

"Tell me what?"

Em pushed his way into the snug arse-first, holding a steaming plate aloft. He'd thrown on Arthur's old CFC hoodie; there was a bread end sticking out of the pocket, and he had a roll of cutlery tucked under his chin.

There was a brief silence, Hunith and Arthur eyeing one another while Em sat, unfurled his utensils and began attacking a pile of meat and roasted veg. Then she smiled. It was weary, but conspiratorial, and gave Arthur a warm feeling in his belly.

"Tell me _what?"_ Em repeated. "Jaysus, Mam, he's only just come out; he's not allowed any more secrets. That would be backsliding."

"It's not a secret," she protested. "But it's about your dad, so…"

"I've been prying," Arthur said, watching Em. "Hope that's alright?"

Em paused in his effort to saw off a bit of gristle. His face went all pinched and stony for the briefest moment; then he snorted, turning the full force of his widest, bluest eyes on Arthur.

"You know what? And, Mam, fair warning: I'm about to swear, so…" He carefully balanced his knife and fork on the sides of his plate, then angled his entire body towards Arthur.

_"You._ You just went and told the entire fucking world that you were headed towards serious depression, or worse, before you met me. That I'm largely responsible for how bloody amazing you are on the pitch—which isn't true by half, by the way, but thank you for the added pressure." He paused, giving Arthur a crazed smile.

Arthur reached for his face, but Em caught his hand and held on, his grip tight and trembling.

"Em?" Arthur said. "What—"

"You can pry wherever you fucking like," he cut in, voice a bit rough. "Strike that. Arthur, with you it's not… it's _never_ prying, or a least it shouldn't be. And if I ever give you the impression that it's otherwise, you need to call me on that shit, because you've given me _everything._ And I love you, yeah?"

Arthur clung to Em's hand, nodding.

"So…"

Arthur swallowed, a bit lost in Em's words and smile and—oh dear fucking _christ_ —the fact that his mum was a witness to this entire thing, which was equal parts mortifying and awesome, because it meant Em couldn't take it back. "Um?"

"Well, what is it then, about my dad?"

_It's destiny,_ Arthur wanted to say, flinging his arms wide. But enough milk had been spilt for one evening, and that sounded completely naff.

Instead, he opted for patting Em's chest, saying, "Mate, I've learned you are genetically inclined towards hoarding club kitsch. So we'll have to watch out for that. Seriously, I've no intention of hearing 'Sweet Camelot' every time someone presses our bell."

"What? Arthur, what bell? We don't have a bell."

"But we _will,"_ he replied, trying for a significant eyebrow. "One day soon, Em, mark my words."

Both Emryses laughed at him for that—loudly, fondly. Father Dunne poked his head in to see what the noise was about, and Arthur flung a defiant arm round Em's shoulders. The priest, a stocky, grizzled man, only smiled and remarked that Arthur was shorter than he'd expected for someone causing such an almighty fuss, and please God was he going to start come Saturday?


	50. The 12th Man

Someone from the club's suit division rang Em on Monday, while they were lounging in the bath at the Dragon's Egg. They informed him that his resignation had been accepted, and that he was to take two weeks' leave before reporting for full-time duty as the academy's new rehab physio and joint head of fitness. George rang a moment later, pleading with him to lie low during that time, and not do any interviews without clearing them first.

"Lie low, no interviews," Em repeated, winking at Arthur from across an ocean of suds. "Not a problem from where I'm sitting, Georgie boy." He held a finger to his lips, slid down a little and did something wicked with his foot that made Arthur jerk and slop water all over the floor.

As for Arthur, George was tight-lipped about the details, because discussions were "still on-going," but it seemed the board, and the league, thought that the best way to handle a star player's unexpected outing was to pretend that it _wasn't_ unexpected at all—that, in fact, the whole thing had been carefully orchestrated.

Except the strippers and flash mob, of course. They were put down to squad pranks in poor taste, incidents the club assured the FA and Camelot Constabulary would be "thoroughly looked into." Gwaine and Kay told Arthur they would've happily fallen on their swords and taken credit, but had been thwarted by an arm-flailing George and—more significantly—an apoplectic, ear-pinching Coach. (Arthur took comfort in the fact that, one way or another, Mordred's glory had been stolen. Em was still all for sending him a formal "Thank You" for supporting local entertainers.)

Their Ealdorian idyll lasted until mid-morning on Wednesday, when Arthur got the official call from Hector to get his arse back to Camelot. Unofficially, Hector confided that his phone had been ringing nonstop. He'd been hearing from colleagues who thought he was mad, or a genius, or possibly a bit of both, but also sponsors—Bluecloak Security were on the fence, but the rest were pleased as punch about the free advertising—and _scouts._

_"Tripping over their tongues with assurances,"_ he said. _"Whether they're ready for the likes of you or not, you're too good to pass up. It appears you were right, son. If you keep pulling off performances like the one on Saturday—the one_ on _the pitch, mind—there's few doors that won't open to you. Domestically, I mean. Wouldn't plan on a move to… well, anywhere your sort's illegal."_

Arthur rang off with a wry, "Cheers, Hec, I'll keep that in mind," and returned to the task at hand: namely, cooling down from a long run by snogging Em up against the wall of his old primary school. It wasn't very effective at lowering the heart rate or increasing oxygen supply, but it made his groin feel _fantastic._

* * *

While the wider world continued to make a fuss over the story, Arthur was calmly welcomed back into the CFC fold. Catrina thwacked him with the fish tongs for holding out on her, and Bors grumbled that Arthur was getting him in shit with the wife—who wanted to know when _she_ was going to be bigged up in the papers as his source of inspiration—but otherwise the lads were still the lads and training was still training.

In fact, after shifting casks for Hunith and keeping pace with Em through the ragged hills round Ealdor, doing a few press-ups and jogging round Knightswood's neatly manicured pitches was a doddle. Journalists buzzed round the place like flies on stink, but Coach made it clear that if they asked about anything other than football, they would be escorted off premises by the nice men from security. Arthur appreciated the cocoon, but he saw it clearly for what it was. He knew the real test would come on Saturday: Blackcastle away.

On the morning, he felt calm. He listened to his iPod on the coach ride down, watching as Camelot's sprawl gave way to industrial estates, then a blur of green and brown fields. He exchanged a few texts with Em, who was on a train headed back to his flat, planning to watch the match with Will and Freya and pick up some fresh clothes.

(He refused to officially move in, but he'd spent every night at Arthur's since they'd returned from Ealdor, and he'd added a few items to the grocery list. He'd even threatened to take Arthur to a real live corner shop on Sunday, show him what normal people did when they had a craving for a Mars bar or ran out of milk.)

As the hours passed, however, Arthur grew uneasy. He didn't regret not waiting until the end of the season, but he wondered why he hadn't at least given a thought to the fixture list and come out before a home match. Or _any_ other away match, for that matter.

When he caught his first glimpse of the Old Abbey, his stomach clenched in a kind of primal fear. He'd made the short trip up through the Welsh high country many a time when he'd been at Abergavenny, the squat grey spires of Blackcastle's stadium perched on the moorland in a crap imitation of the surrounding peaks. Approaching from the northeast, the grounds looked more impressive—grimmer, too, though perhaps that was just down to the menacing clouds.

He closed his eyes, swallowing a sour flood of spit, and remembered what it felt like to take that long (usually muddy) walk from the corner tunnel to the visitors' bench with a wall of Martyrs' fans baying for blood.

Abergavenny were Blackcastle's most hated rivals; anyone who played for them—particularly if they'd played _well_ —were considered "Centurion scum." Arthur's stint as said scum had been two years' back, but they had long memories for that sort of thing in Blackcastle; hell, they booed Gaheris because his _grandfather_ had been part of a Centurions' side that had routinely thrashed them after the War.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, he saw Elyan watching him, forehead creased with concern. Arthur gave what he thought was a manly, reassuring nod. It was neither, apparently, because Elyan fished an earbud out and leaned across the aisle.

"Alright there?"

"Sure thing, E."

"You look like you're about to be sick."

"Well, you'd know." Arthur tried a grin. There was one on every team—the guy who never showed a lick of nerves but routinely disappeared into a stall before the big matches and came back chewing gum. When you were as good as Elyan, no one gave you shit for it. Much.

Elyan gave him a withering look. "I'm serious, man. Only time I've seen you this rough was at training camp, after the great mystery meat—"

"For fuck's sake, don't remind me!" Arthur cut in, his stomach giving a queasy flip. "I'm good, I swear… or I will be when the whistle blows."

Elyan studied him for a long moment, clearly not buying it, but nodding anyway. "Yeah, okay," he said, replacing his earbud and settling back in his seat.

However, as they filed into the visitors' dressing room—purposefully poky, with a lingering miasma of Dettol—he took Arthur's elbow and steered him into a corner.

"Look, I know you're one crazy big-balled motherfucker," he said. "And I've never had to deal with the whole 'coming out' thing—funny, that, how everyone seems to notice I'm black without me announcing it in the papers—but I _do_ know a fair bit about playing in front of hostiles."

"I hope you're not going to tell me to picture them naked with apples stuffed in their mouths."

Elyan held up his hands and shook his head, smiling. "No, huh-unh. That's strictly Kay's thing, the sick bastard." Then his smile fell.

Arthur, looking into his warm, earnest eyes—very like Gwen's, he noted, finally seeing the family resemblance—realised that Elyan was actually _worried_ for him.

"Elyan, really, I'm fine. I just –"

Elyan cut him off with an eloquent "Bitch, please" look— _also_ very like Gwen's.

"You just _listen,_ Pendragon. There is no 'good enough' for some people. In their eyes, you'll _always_ be on trial, because of who you are. They'll always remember the one time you fuck up more than the ten times you don't, and they're more than happy for you to do your head in trying to prove yourself." He leaned in, laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "So the trick is, _don't._ Play like you've nothing to prove. Play like you've already won, just by being here, and—" He gave Arthur a little shake.

"And for fuck's sake be a man and go throw up if you need to—or do whatever it is you do to sort yourself—because I'm not going out there with you looking like the arse end of a Saturday night!"

Arthur gave a shaky smile. "That bad, eh?"

" 'Fraid so."

Arthur nodded. "Right then," he said, and headed for the toilets.

He didn't really think he was going to be sick, but he stood over the bowl for a few moments anyways, taking deep breaths. He closed his eyes and counted to twenty, repeated several of Doctor Kilgary's kooky mantras under his breath; then he took out his phone and punched Em's speed-dial.

_"Arthur? Shouldn't you be—"_

"Tell me I did the right thing. Tell me I'm not ridiculous."

_"But you are ridiculous; it's part of your charm."_

"Fine. Then tell me you'll still love me if I make a complete arse of myself out there, or they rip my legs off."

There was as snort, then Em said, _"No. You know perfectly well I only love you because you're rich and famous and impossibly fit. If you return to Camelot anything less than victorious and in possession of all your limbs, you're never touching my cock again."_

Arthur heard spluttered laughter in the background, Will intoning, "Come back with your shield, or on it" and Freya and Helen doing a camp chorus of, "Only the _hard,_ only the _strong_ … O, Sporty, this… is Sparta!"

"Cheers for that," he said, realising that he was grinning down into the toilet bowl, that he was still nervous as fuck, but no longer uneasy.

_"Any time. Now piss off and go warm up properly. The Beeb says it's started pelting down there, and that pitch takes no prisoners."_

Elyan was waiting for Arthur just round the corner from the bogs, palming a blister pack of chewing gum. He took one look at Arthur and, smirking, slid it back in his pocket.

"That's more like it," Elyan said, dodging Gwaine's sudden attempt to make a grab for the gum. "C'mon, get your kit on and let's go see how crap the pitch is. A tenner says Perce sinks in up to his ankles."

* * *

The pitch was, indeed, crap, and despite the dour weather the Martyrs' fans were as lively as ever. And bloody _loud._ He tried telling himself that it was a blessing in disguise. They already despised him, were always going to boo him, so what did it matter if it was for being Centurion scum or really liking dick?

The officials and stewards were obviously on high alert—which could be taken as worrying or comforting—but amongst the players it was all business as usual. Pre-match, the two sides swapped a bit of banter or ignored one another, according to personality. In the line-up, everyone shook Arthur's hand; a few met his eyes and gave that wordless, fraternal nod of respect. The first solid tackle of the match left him bruised and muddied, but also relieved, because it meant no one was pulling punches, that he was still seen as a threat.

Wary of the conditions, Arthur played a disciplined, cautious first half. He didn't fuck up any obvious chances, Camelot didn’t concede, and no one sprained an ankle. He chalked it up as a success until Coach rounded on him in the dressing room.

"If I wanted a bloody robot up front, I would have signed one," he shouted, slamming his clipboard down on the bench. "And for a man who's sworn to play his guts out for this team, you're doing an awfully good impression of someone who'd rather be scratching his arse down the pub!"

After that (and another pointed look from Elyan), Arthur threw caution to the wind. He found his balls—not to mention _the_ ball, gifted to him by Lance via a jewel of a pass—and attempted a mad volley from twenty-five yards out. It was the kind of shot he normally wouldn't try except in training, under perfect conditions, just to keep the lads on their toes.

His foot connected with a solid _thwock._ He watched in disbelief as the ball sailed over the defenders, over the backpedalling keeper, and swooped into the top corner of the net. The Camelot travelling support, confined to a single section up near the scudding clouds, went wild.

Whooping, Arthur spun round and raced towards Elyan and Lance, diving into a belly slide on the sodden pitch. They pulled him up and into a muddy embrace, Lance hollering, "Do it, mate. It's perfect, really."

Arthur grabbed Lance by the ears and planted a smack on his forehead. "You mean you'll be in the coin if I do, you diamond fuck!"

The topic of signature goal celebrations had been a hot one in the CFC camp. Everyone insisted Arthur needed one—and not whatever that rubbish was he'd done against Caerleon—but apart from that there was no consensus. Arthur got the feeling Gwaine might have been taking the piss with his suggestion, but he thought it absolutely _brilliant,_ and who cared if Leon sort of rolled his eyes when he caught Arthur practising or there was a healthy pot going on whether he'd actually dare…

Arthur turned towards the nearest camera and held up three fingers sideways in an "E." Then he flicked his wrist down, turning it into an "M" and placed his hand over his heart.

"Yes!" Lance crowed, slapping his back. Elyan burst out laughing and shook his head, shoving Arthur away. As soon as the gesture appeared on the big screen, there was a surge of noise from the Camelot fans. Arthur thought he heard them breaking into "Our Number Nine," but the wind whipped the tune away.

Some of the Blackcastle fans were still on their feet as well, hurling abuse at the travelling support (and their own team), but most had dropped into their seats like deflated tyres. Suddenly a lanky lad near the hoardings stood, cupped his hands round his mouth, and called out "Arse-bandit! Fucking queer scum!" The people behind him shouted for him to sit down, but his mates rallied round him, even as the stewards closed in. Arthur only grinned wider and punched his fist in the air as he turned to jog back to the centre circle.

Elyan was right. (Elyan was a subtle fucking genius at man-management, actually, and it would be a crime if he didn't go into coaching.) They could call him whatever they bloody well liked, but it didn’t change the fact that he existed, that he was _here,_ blazing trails of class on their cesspool of a pitch, and that he no longer had to hide who he'd be going home to afterward. He had, indeed, already won.


	51. Our Number Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PFA = Professional Footballers' Association (Welsh and English players' union)

The final weeks of the season were a roller-coaster ride, both on and off the pitch. The public debate over Arthur's coming out raged on, but he stuck to his guns and avoided all interviews outside his basic media obligations.

Over and over, he repeated the same stock answers. Yes, it was a weight off his shoulders and he was enjoying his football. No, it wasn't a distraction—unless they planned on making it one? (This always met with nervous laughter.) And, in response to the perpetual chorus of "Why now, though, why not wait, aren't you concerned that…?" he'd gently refer them to the article, then smile and add something flip like, "You lot kept saying there had to be a first; well, here I am. The elephant himself. So mind how you go."

The new elephant in the room, of course, was the implied "others," as if Arthur was the chosen leader of the PFA's own merry band of sexual outlaws. And yes, the idea he'd pitched to Hector about a planned group "outing" _had_ smacked of something similar (and the PFA had been in touch about moderating an anonymous support group), but Arthur knew what was at stake.

He was no Mordred. The last thing he and Em wanted was to encourage a round of Guess Who? or put pressure on those struggling with their secrets. So they took pains to emphasise that this was the right choice for _them,_ and questions about "others" were met with a stony gaze from Em or Arthur's cheeky, "Other whats? Nah, mate, positive there's only one of me. Ask Emrys, or the lads. I am _pretty_ special."

But privately, Arthur wondered about the men Em had run into in gay bars over the years, men he'd been ignored by or begged not to recognise. He wondered about the men whose families and agents _knew_ and encouraged them to stay silent, and he worried about others like himself—or like he'd been—the ones who felt walled off, fucked up and deeply alone, always about five seconds away from doing something stupid.

He hoped they were paying attention, and weren't terrified by what they saw. And despite knowing he _shouldn't_ —because that way lay madness, or at least added pressure he could do without—he took that hope, that responsibility, onto the pitch with him every time he played.

* * *

He had an injury scare in CFC's rough and tumble draw against Marchogion, a defender landing awkwardly on top of his left leg after going up for a header. His ankle swelled up horribly and—much to Em's morbid delight—his foot turned all the colours of the contusion rainbow, but Doctor Tally's scans showed nothing was torn or broken.

The newest member of Elena's physio team, a woman called Mithian, taped an ankle faster and neater than anyone Arthur had ever met, even Em. Between her and Elena's daily treatments and Em's after-hours TLC, he was back at it the next week, hammering in two against Northern Plains United in the last home match of the season. Elyan added a third in the dying minutes.

As the results came in from around the league, it became clear that Camelot was assured a top-three finish, no matter what happened in the final week—which meant next season they'd be going, not into the seething jumble of Europa League qualification, but straight into the group stage of the Champions League. Camelot in Europe—in the crème de la fucking _crème_ of Europe—at long last.

Percy sat down on the pitch and wept.

Kay, who'd made several crucial saves to preserve their goal difference, pulled off his gloves and threw them into the crowd, followed swiftly by his shorts. Leon strolled round like a proud father, congratulating everyone and applauding the fans. The younger lads were in a daze, trying to play it cool and failing miserably, and Coach looked fit to burst something in his face, what with all the smirking.

Em was at work, else Arthur thought he might have sought him out in the stands. Instead, he joined Leon in raising his hands in the air and clapping as he walked off the pitch. He imagined Em at the academy, putting the little blighters through their asanas or pilates or whatnot with one eye on the telly. He imagined his father, too, up in the Gold Scale Suite, doubtless all misty-eyed at the prospect of millions of euros in prize money.

The fans, naturally, were over the moon about the results, and these days it seemed as if all of Camelot was walking round draped in red and gold. Their response to Arthur _personally,_ however, was a bit more mixed. Gwen, through her motley network of activist supporters, kept an eye on the major fan forums, where reactions ranged from disbelief to almost disturbing levels of enthusiasm. Some Knights of the Kop had bleached their red shirts and were exhorting others to do likewise. They'd begun serenading the opposition with a scandalous, albeit hilarious, reworking of "Our Number Nine" that ended with the lines:

_So our striker is a bum boy,_  
 _We don’t care what you think_  
 _If he leads us into Europe_  
 _We’ll proudly wear Pendragon pink!_

* * *

Arthur received floods of positive post and texts from all over, offering words of encouragement or thanks, and fans waiting at the barriers still shouted for his autograph, even if the requests sometimes came with snorts and giggles and the occasional, "You _really_ a bender, mate?" and " 'Ere, Wart, me sister says she'll sort ya right!"

But sometimes perfect strangers gave him ugly, accusing—almost _wounded_ —looks, as if he'd described savage acts of buggery while snatching their children's sweets or farted at their weddings, and on a squad outing to promote the club's charity work, a woman spat at Arthur's feet and told him she couldn't believe she'd actually prayed for him when he was in hospital.

Arthur _tried_ not to take such things personally, opting to ignore them or move away as quickly as possible. Em was the one who'd call people on it when they were together. He didn't acknowledge them verbally, but he'd meet their eyes and smile—his face, in those moments, a thing of terrible beauty—as he reached for Arthur's hand.

The first time they went for a burger in the city centre, just the two of them, Em held the door for Arthur and crowded in behind him in the queue, resting his hands on his hips. Arthur fidgeted until Em nudged him, whispering, "Do you have to pee or something?"

"No! It's just—" But then it was their turn to order, so Arthur waited until they were seated to explain how much he liked it, Em being a bit fierce and handsy in public, letting _that_ side of himself come out in broad daylight, far from Avalon or their own flats.

Em waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, I see. You were working up a little sub chub in the queue there, just for me."

"Em."

"Duly noted. And heartily appreciated."

_"Emmett."_

"Hmm?"

"You've got ketchup on your chin, just… there."

That was what the tabloids ran with the next day: Arthur wiping ketchup off Em's jutting chin; Em tipping Arthur's chips into his own basket; the two of them strolling down the pavement, sort of leaning into one another's personal space, with Em's hand lingering low on Arthur's back; plus a heart-shaped inset of Arthur doing his new goal celebration. All very thrilling, stop-the-presses type of stuff.

Arthur cut the pictures out and put them on his fridge, alongside the others. When she saw, Morgana applauded and declared him an official fanboy of his own love life. He endured her mocking silently and, so he liked to think, with dignity.

He endured no end of stick in the dressing room as well—for being so thoroughly, and visibly, whipped—but there he was on firmer ground; there he smiled, loudly insulted everything from the lads' cock size to their taste in shoes and thought, _If they only knew…_

Not that he'd _actually_ been whipped, but he certainly hadn’t minded the spankings.

* * *

The night of the PFA gala, Arthur thought he'd died and gone to heaven, not because he expected to win anything—he knew his rocky season start and month out injured counted against him—but because he got to sit next to Em looking like a wet, wicked dream in a dinner suit, their thighs pressed together beneath the drape of the white tablecloth as they cheered their friends.

Young Player of the Year went to Elyan, which wasn't a big surprise to the squad, but between the champagne on offer and Gwen's genuine squeals of excitement, the moment felt heightened somehow. As Elyan jogged up to the stage, Arthur looked around the table, watching the faces of his teammates, and felt a pang of love and gratitude so fucking huge and raw he grabbed for Em's hand and squeezed it, then buried his face in Em's shoulder.

"I love this," he murmured. "I love _you."_ The others at the table, upon noting the display, chuckled or cleared their throats.

"I know," Em said, side-mouth, keeping his eyes trained on the podium. His cheeks were flushed with the wine and… something, his hair done up with a bit of gel. He was wearing lip gloss as well, which was just unfair. And perfect. Perfectly unfair.

"No, Em, I really, _really_ lo—"

"Yes, alright, now hush!" Em cut in, nudging Arthur back into a fully upright position. His tone was schoolmarmish, but his expression, when he glanced over, was fond. "They're about to announce Player of the Year, you know. You might want to pay attention."

"Okay, okay," Arthur said, withdrawing and lifting his hands. He took another swallow from his glass—or perhaps it was Kay's glass, he'd lost track—and folded his hands over his stomach. "What?" he mouthed, when he caught Leon smirking and Morgana rolling her eyes.

He really didn’t know what they were on about. It wasn't like they'd never canoodled in public before; they were _filthy_ canoodlers, come to think of it, and so what if a few jowly old men were glaring at him?

For the merest, briefest moment, Arthur thought maybe something else was going on, thought _maybe I…_

But, no, Player of the Year went to Ravi, and deservedly so. He'd racked up thirty-two league goals to Arthur's twenty-seven, was a dead ringer for the Golden Boot, and had, week-in, week-out, done his bit to keep his club in the top five.

Arthur got to his feet to applaud his hero. North London's Sun God looked younger in his jacket and tie, a bit awkward, nowhere near as intimidating as he was on the pitch. Nevertheless, he accepted his award with the kind of studied, formal grace that Arthur knew his father loved to see in a young man, particularly one from a former colony.

 _One day,_ Arthur thought, watching Ravi wrestle with the trophy. It was as ugly and oversized as it was coveted, one of the few honours that any player in the league, regardless of his other accomplishments, held in high esteem. Arthur was pulled from his reverie by a pressure on the back of his neck, Em urging him to sit back down.

"What? I'm only—"

"Shh," said Em. "Just wait."

"And watch," Kay added.

During this exchange, Ravi had passed the trophy back to the presenter with an apologetic smile and removed his jacket, which he'd draped over the podium. Now he was undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. There were a few whistles and laughs from fellow players, but mostly Arthur sensed a ripple of unease throughout the room.

When he saw what Ravi had on underneath, he turned to stare at Kay, gape-mouthed. "What the fuck?" he whispered. "What, Kay, the fuck?"

By now the whole room was buzzing. Ravi gestured to have the trophy back. Then he stood there, in Arthur's shirt—presumably it had been washed, but Arthur could still see the grass stains—and smiled into the glare of the camera flash.

"One day, my friend," he said into the mic, in a weird echo of Arthur's thoughts, and nodded towards their table. Then he launched into the strangest, loveliest speech Arthur had ever heard a footballer make while being stone cold sober.

"Today, you honour me," he said, hefting the trophy aloft in one hand. "Me, a foreigner. But I am always feeling more foreign here than you know… until this man." He fisted Arthur's shirt with his free hand.

"Too much we wait, I think, to honour men when they are dead. When they are old, or safe. Call them great when they are toothless, yes? Well, I do not want to be waiting. I want to say thank you to this man in the now; I want to say that if he does not stand where I stand one day soon, I will eat, as the gaffer is all the time saying, my hat. For Pendragon is the good nine—not quite so good as me, I think, and it seems you think so too, my friends—" Here he tilted his head towards the trophy and cracked a sly smile.

"But he is already great man, and still with many teeth. Much years of playing to come. I am proud to play in the league welcoming this man in it and say that I, too, am like him. I am the gay. Thank you."

Ravi nodded. Then he grasped the trophy with both hands, once more posing for the cameras. As the room erupted in a welter of sounds, Arthur looked between Kay and Em, completely gobsmacked. "Did he just—"

"Yep," Em said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Did you _know_ about this? You can’t have, how could you?"

"I might know someone who knows that Ravi has been feuding with his agent ever since you came out," Em said loftily.

"And we might have put him in touch with Hector," Kay added, patting Arthur's knee. "Sorry, Wart, but it looks like you're yesterday's news."

"Thank fucking _christ,"_ Arthur said, and gleefully necked the rest of Kay's—definitely Kay's, because he made a grab for it—champagne.

"Thank fucking _Ravi,"_ Em amended, draping an arm over the back of Arthur's chair.

Without missing a beat Kay winked at them, lifted the next glass over—Leon's—and said, "And let's not forget about whoever Ravi's been _fucking._ I'd say they deserve some of the credit as well."

* * *

Arthur thought the night couldn’t possibly hold any more drama, but in the lobby they ran into Constance, waiting for Myror to finish his goodbyes. She hugged Arthur and greeted Em warmly, saying, "Do you have a minute? I know he'd love to say hello."

"Can't it wait 'til Wembley?" Arthur joked, referring to the upcoming FA Cup final, where Albion and Camelot—both through to the Champions League by virtue of league placement—would be playing for the old-fashioned honour and glory and Englishness of the thing, the bragging rights, the Cup itself.

"Arthur," Connie chided, giving him a look she could have stolen from Morgana.

And so they lingered.

Arthur blithered on in response to Connie's questions about what sort of properties they were looking at and Connie described family life in London, while Em, increasingly, fidgeted.

Arthur wondered if _he_ had to pee, but wasn't about to ask in front of Connie, as the champagne hadn’t (completely) destroyed his brain-to-mouth filter.

Myror snuck up on them, making Em jump with his derisive snort and disbelieving, _"Camlann_ Estates?"

There was a bushy new beard framing the familiar smile and he, too, had evidently been enjoying his champagne. He clapped Arthur on the back and slipped in beside his wife, eyes sparkling.

"Really, Pendragon? You could do much better than Kay for a neighbour, and a bunch of desperate housewives. You want to come to _London,_ mate, get yourself sorted with a proper club! There's loads more of your lot about—even Ravi the bloody Sun God, eh? Always knew there was something dodgy about that bloke—and Con and I miss our little suppers."

"You…" Arthur began. He saw Connie wince, and beside him Em had gone still. Arthur realised that Myror hadn’t so much as acknowledged Em beyond flicking his eyes in the general direction. "You mean like when you blanked Em, then called us disgusting— _those_ little suppers?" He felt Em's hand steadying his shoulder and edged closer.

"Did I really say that?" Myror said, still smiling. "Don’t listen to me, mate."

"Too right," Connie murmured, glaring daggers at her husband. "I don't. 'Dodgy,' Myror, really? Do you know how offensive that is, especially in present company?"

"Pretty sure it's offensive in any company," Em said mildly.

Myror's smile faded. He looked peevishly between Em and his wife, then re-focused on Arthur.

"Look, I've got no problem with you, Pendragon. You're from a good family, you work hard, and you've got a head for the game. But this business…" Myror's gaze took in all the places Arthur and Em were touching. He shook his head, then leaned in, lowering his voice.

"I'm sorry. I get that you can't help what the cock wants, so needs must, but stepping out with a man like he's your _wife,_ spouting off about playing house, shoving it in everyone's face? No one _actually_ wants to see that, mate. And you shouldn't be encouraging it."

 _"Myror!"_ Connie whispered.

Arthur could have kissed Em for his response, except there was no need, as Em's response was—in fact—to step in with his back to Myror, grasp Arthur's lapels and haul him in for a searing, nose-mashing kiss.

Beyond the hot press of lips and the wet thrust of tongue, Arthur was dimly aware of Myror sputtering. He heard several wolf-whistles, then Connie's furious, "Oh, well done, darling, well done. Do you even hear yourself? You sound like your father did when you first brought _me_ home!"

By the time Em let him up for air, she'd stalked off through a knot of bemused onlookers, leaving Myror stranded with a face like he'd caught a bad smell. Arthur met his gaze over Em's shoulder.

"Oops. Looks like it'll be the guest room for you tonight, mate."

"Least I won't be on my knees sucking off some pikey bastard."

"You… you beardy shitwank—" Arthur began, lunging forward, but Em held him firmly and started walking him backward.

"Whoa, easy now, big fella," he murmured, smirking. "Think the point's been made. No need for the kind of afters that'll get you suspended."

"No? But—"

"No." Em shook his head, trying and failing to look stern what with his laughing eyes and Arthur's spit drying on his chin. "No need. Time for _our_ kind of afters, pick up where we left off, hmm?"

Myror snorted. "Yeah, best go practise puckering up, Pendragon, 'cause you'll be kissing _my_ arse at Wembley."

"Next time you see me kissing something, it's going to be the Cup," Arthur shot back. He leaned around Em and pointed to his own face, adding, "With this mouth, that sucks cock!"

Myror made a sound of disgust and threw his hands in the air, then shrugged like he couldn’t be bothered. Em began to laugh silently, just a tremor in his upper body and—when Arthur pulled back to look—eyes going a bit squinty.

"You've no chance, mate," Myror called as they retreated across the lobby. "You and Thomas can't carry a whole squad on your own."

"That's not what the bookies think, _mate."_ Arthur shouted and, because the occasion seemed to call for it, burst into the chorus of "A Dragon's Roar Is Mighty." Em, now shaking with laughter, spun him round and shoved him towards the doors.

* * *

Amidst the furore surrounding Ravi's announcement, no one paid the incident much attention. No one would have paid it _any_ attention, Arthur was convinced, if Albion and Camelot weren't contesting the FA Cup. As it was, as soon as he and Myror performed the necessary Monday-morning apologies and paid their respective club fines, there was nothing more to be officially said, beyond George's sniffy, "Thank goodness you're not on Twitter!"

Unofficially, Myror's comments rankled—especially the one about playing house, since that's what it _felt_ like some days, with all the to-ing and fro-ing and their reliance on Jacek's discretion to keep the management from insisting Em be put on the lease. But Em seemed content to chalk the exchange up to an unfortunate mix of testosterone, asshattery and champagne, so Arthur let it go.

The last weekend of the league season came and went with little change in the table. Ravi's team secured the title. Camelot pulled off a decent, if not particularly memorable, win just up the road at the Ridings on Saturday, but in the end it wasn't enough to push past Albion, who ran riot over poor Wessex on Sunday. The 6-nil scoreline kept Camelot in third, fuelled the hype surrounding the upcoming Cup clash, and assured the Hardy Boys' relegation.

Arthur was as geed up about the Camelot-Albion rivalry as the next man on the squad, but on a personal level he found the fate of Wessex the most upsetting. Their going down meant he wouldn't be seeing the inside of the St. Jude's dressing room next season, and he had very, _very_ fond memories of the St. Jude's dressing room.

He complained of it to Em Sunday evening over trays of pasta bake, eaten—in true bachelor-style—off their chests while lounging on Arthur's sofa. They were propped up lengthwise, top to tail, with Arthur's feet crammed in under the back cushions and Em's wedged against Arthur's hip.

Em reminded him Camelot could always get drawn against Wessex in a tournament.

Arthur countered that they'd be better off doing up one of the bathrooms in their future house to resemble a wetroom, with open showers and a plunge bath—maybe even stick in an adjoining "treatment" area.

"You do realise," Arthur said, "that for all the role-play we get up to, you've never had me in my kit."

Em blinked. He popped his fork out of his mouth and pointed it at Arthur. "Well, that's… That's 'cause you can't keep it _on_ long enough, naked boy wonder. Plus it'd mean the destruction of club property."

"I'm sure our combined spunk is legendary, mate, but it'll still come out in the wash."

"Who said anything about spunk?" Em went back to scraping at the browned bits of baked cheese clinging to the edges of the tray. "Arthur, I spent _months_ repressing fantasies of what I'd like to do to you in your kit, because it made me feel creepy and unprofessional. If I did even _half_ the things I've imagined, believe me, that shit would get wrecked."

It was said so earnestly, Arthur couldn't help but smile. "What, are we talking Christmas party-type action? You'd cut it off me with bandage scissors?"

Em took his time with his forkful of cheese, sucking thoughtfully on the tines. "Eventually," he said. He swiped a finger along the bottom of the tray and licked it off.

"Well, I…" Arthur swallowed, wondering if it was weird to be jealous of a ready meal. "You're not my physio, and I can afford the fines. For the kit."

"I know you can."

"So why not?"

"I never said I _wouldn't."_ Em looked up suddenly, all fierce challenge and filthy promise.

 _Fucking wetroom eyes,_ Arthur thought. _How does he do that, the coy bastard?_ Before he could ask, though, a small furrow appeared between Em's brows.

Em dropped his fork in the tray and leaned sideways to set the tray on the coffee table. "But. Speaking of jobs and such, and, ah, this future house…"

"Wha… _oh._ Right." It took a moment for Arthur's brain to back away from the pending fantasy, but when he processed what Em had said, his heart leapt. This was the first time Em had brought the topic up more or less on his own. "What is it?"

"What would you say to more of a… well, a future flat above a shop?"

Arthur chuckled. "I know we talked about living more to your income level, but I've seen your pay packet, mate, and it's not _that_ dire."

"No, it's only a flat in the sense that _this_ is a flat. Acres of space, two whole floors of an old Georgian. Plus a roof garden conversion, which I haven't seen in person, but Will says there's a grand view of the river."

 _"Will_ says?" Arthur sat up. "This is an actual place then? That you've been to?" _Without me,_ he thought but didn't say.

Em shrugged. "Swung by the outside, yeah. Some big client of Will's uses it as a corporate flat for their overseas reps, but they're consolidating their UK operations, planning on selling up."

"Oh." Arthur couldn’t quite keep the chill out of his voice. Em picked up on it in an instant, his expression turning wary.

And that—that just _hurt_ Arthur's heart far more than any petty jealousy. Sighing, he set the remains of his meal on the floor and pulled Em's feet onto his lap.

"What are you—"

"View of the river, huh? Is this near Morgana's?" Arthur cut in, giving Em's toes a squeeze. They were extraordinarily long and knobbly, each with a few black hairs. They were Em's least favourite part of himself, but Arthur found them oddly fascinating (not to mention wonderfully dexterous). "Date nights are one thing, but I'm not sure I want her for a neighbour. She's no use for sugar, but I wouldn't put it past her to pop round to 'borrow' wine and a massage."

Squirming, Em ducked his head, but not before Arthur saw a nervous flash of smile and noted that his cheeks had gone a bit pink.

Because, of course, the _best_ thing about Em's toes was the way he got all flustered whenever Arthur fondled them.

"Nah. It's across the river, between the quays and the east end of the old stable district."

"The _notorious_ end?"

"Well, yeah, but that's perfect for us, isn't it?" There was an edge to Em's voice as he glanced up—through his fucking _lashes,_ which sent Arthur's brain running right back to the St. Jude's wetroom.

He swallowed, digging his thumbs into Em's arches perhaps slightly harder than necessary. "Dunno. Isn’t it a bit… grotty? Unsafe?"

"You sound like Connie. Have you even been over there since they reclaimed the strand? Nice park, more housing, and—what am I saying?" Em snorted. "You've _never_ been, have you, posh git like yourself?"

"I _have,_ actually," Arthur retorted. "Loads of times."

Em didn’t need to know that it had only been as a boy, waiting impatiently in the back of a chauffeured car for Morgana to finish her piano lessons. He may not have understood what he was seeing at the time, but the bold stares of the young men lounging on the corner had intrigued him. Later, older, he'd never dared to go back, afraid of many things, but mostly of being looked at by those men and being _known._

The idea of being so afraid was laughable now, pathetic. And the main reason for _that_ was currently studying Arthur, eyebrows raised.

"Oh _really?"_ Em said.

Arthur shrugged, adding, "But not, as you say, for a while."

"Hmm." Em still looked sceptical, but he let it drop, settling back into the cushions. "Well, there's all sorts there now, nice mix of people. Not that the people out in Camlann Estates or wherever _aren't_ nice, but…" Em made a dismissive gesture. "Myror's an arse, but he's got a point."

Arthur paused in his ministrations. "Yeah, and what's that? That we should stick to our own, preferably somewhere out of sight?"

 _"No,_ that I’m not your housewife, desperate or otherwise; when you're away next season I don't fancy coming home to some empty, gated pile of bricks with neighbours we never see. I prefer being around a bit of life, you know?"

"And that means kebab stalls and _hustlers?"_

"Yes!" Em propped himself up on his elbows. "I mean, not _exactly,_ but tell me where can you get a decent curry at any hour out at Camlann—Kay's always moaning about it—and better hustlers than a bunch of bloody Dursleys.

"Arthur, Will says that within a few minutes' walk you can get a _dozen_ different types of curry, and you'll never guess where we went for a coffee." Grinning, Em drummed his feet against Arthur's hands. "Go on, guess."

"I'm gonna go wild here and bet it wasn't a Costa."

"A twenty-four hour _launderette._ It's just round the corner. It serves espresso drinks and cake and at night they have—get this—go-go-boys. Rumour has it if you tip well enough, they'll help you fold."

Arthur snorted out a laugh. "Why on earth would we ever need a launderette, with or without go-go boys?"

Em's eyes narrowed. "Jaysus, Arthur, we wouldn’t _need_ it, not for the washing, but who doesn't like cake and…" He paused, biting his lip.

"Look, I love my work—and the lads, and the club—but I'm not blessed with your balls-to-the-wall, perfect…" Em gestured towards Arthur in mute frustration. "You know, the whole 'heroic number nine' thing. There are days when it _costs_ me, yeah? When carving out my place in all that cock posturing, all that bloody macho _shine,_ gets exhausting."

"I thought you liked my macho shine," Arthur mumbled, feeling a bit out of his depth. Glancing down, he realised he was clutching Em's feet as if they were free weights; Em must have felt it, but he hadn't budged. Arthur loosened his grip.

"Of _course_ I do, you great lump." Em jerked his feet off Arthur's lap.

Arthur looked up to find him staring with a pinched, exasperated sort of look, as if he thought Arthur were being especially thick.

"But I _also_ like go-go boys and leathermen and launderettes with fucking _cake,_ alright? I like having dykes in my local and drag queens on the residents' association— _that's_ what makes me feel safe. The corn exchange, sharing with Will and Freya, that's not just some happy accident, or for the savings. I _chose_ that.

"And now I'm choosing you—fuck, I chose you months ago, you know that—but after a shite day you won't always be there with your stupid face to look at me like I'm…"

Em looked away, hugging his knees to his chest. He was wearing his trademark loungewear of soft, tatty T-shirt and a pair of old scrubs, his knees practically poking through the worn fabric. The posture reminded Arthur of their first night in Ealdor, seeing Em crouched before the space heater, breathing in the scent of Arthur's shirt.

Arthur slowly shifted one foot until it was nudging Em's. "The best thing since smoky bacon crisps?"

Em huffed.

"My hero?" Arthur waited for Em to realise he wasn't taking the piss, for his eyes to settle back on Arthur, bright and blue, before adding, _"And_ a complete fucking moron."

Em's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"Why did you let me faff on about custom floor plans and granite worktops—virtual walk-throughs with virtual bloody _goldfish—_ instead of just telling me you'd found a place you like?"

"I _am_ telling you. Now."

"And when did you first hear of this place again? When did you go look at it, with _Will?"_

"Well, you…" Em floundered. "You've had a lot on your plate. And you seemed so happy, with your virtual fish. All your shiny brochures. I—"

Arthur lunged forward, tugging Em's arms away from his knees. There was a brief tussle, but at last Em uncurled from his turtle ball and Arthur pushed his way in, dragging him down onto the cushions and settling on top.

"You," he said, burrowing his face into Em's neck, "said to call you on your shit, right? Well, I'm calling." Em squirmed beneath him, making a sound of protest. Arthur sucked a kiss behind his ear.

"Arthur—"

Arthur kissed him again, reaching up to press his fingers to Em's lips. "Huh-unh. I thought I made it perfectly clear that I would agree to live in a fucking cardboard box down on the _docks,_ so long as it was with you. So you can be as choosy and difficult as you like, but unless you don't want me anymore, you are going to apologise for not trusting me, and we are going to stop playing house and… and _do_ house for fucking real."

Em snorted, but Arthur could feel his lips curving into a smile beneath his fingers. He patted the smile, saying "That's better," and slid his hand down, angling Em's chin away so he had better access to his neck.

 _"Do_ house?" Em scoffed as Arthur nuzzled.

"Yes. Shut up. It's totally a thing." He propped himself up so he could see Em properly. "Now, when are you taking me to see this urban paradise?"

Em stared at him for a moment, considering. "After we get back from London, I guess? But not unless you really want to."

"Cardboard _box,_ Emrys. Don’t make me say it again. And maybe leave a few days' buffer in there for recovery."

"Recovery," Em repeated, blinking. "From?"

"Epic hangovers after winning the Cup. And whatever you're going to do to me afterwards, in or out of my kit. Naturally."

Em rolled his eyes, but he was smiling—guilty, flustered, pleased—as he reached for Arthur's face.

"There's _my_ number nine," he murmured. His kiss tasted of garlic and burnt cheese, and, truth be told, was all the apology Arthur required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for the new CFC fan version of "Our Number Nine," AKA "Arthur's Nightmare Terrace Chant" goes to the fabulous Gattodoro. Basically, when Gatty sent this to me - as a joke, I should add, hence the title - I thought it was so hilarious and perfectly evocative of the kind of crass, un-politically-correct (but nevertheless fond) nonsense my head-canon fans would get up to, I made a "straight" version for them to later corrupt into this one because I knew it _had_ to be in the story. 
> 
> It is sung to the tune of "My Old Man's a Dustman" (young persons stop right where you are and go google Lonnie Donegan for the whole camptastic nonsense) and the whole thing goes like so:
> 
>  
> 
> _Our number nine’s a woofter_   
>  _He takes it up the arse_   
>  _But that doesn’t stop him scoring_   
>  _From a decent cross-field pass._
> 
> _We don’t care he’s a pansy,_   
>  _We don’t care that he’s gay,_   
>  _When Queen Arthur gets the ball_   
>  _We love to see him play._
> 
> _At Camelot, we play in red,_   
>  _A fact you surely know,_   
>  _We’ll play the others off the park_   
>  _And to glory we will go._
> 
> _So our striker is a bum boy,_   
>  _We don’t care what you think_   
>  _If he leads us into Europe_   
>  _We’ll proudly wear Pendragon pink!_
> 
> \O/ \O/ \O/ \O/ \O/ \O/ \O/ \O/ \O/


	52. Cup Quest

The last Saturday in May dawned warm and hazy, clouds brushed thinly across the London sky. Arthur knew that by kick-off Wembley would be stifling, thousands of fans packed in against one another, sweating lager and onions and singing their guts out. And none of them would care about the discomfort, because they'd be too busy clutching at scarves and one another, hoping—believing—that this was their year to lift the FA Cup.

Arthur was right there with them. Despite the week's setbacks—Bors and Lemmie were down with a nasty flu, and Leon had buggered a knee in training—his confidence hadn't waned. And it wasn't just the Em-tinted goggles. Every day at Knightswood, he'd seen the proof that Myror was full of shit: as a team, they totally _had_ this.

Looking around the dressing room, though, Arthur saw that he was in the minority. End-of-season syndrome and relentless media speculation—over Camelot's chances given their reduced squad, over who would stay, who would go, and who would be thanked for their service and quietly shuffled on during the summer transfer window—had clearly taken their toll.

Gwaine looked listless, Lance was tetchy, and the younger lads were all nerves under a thin slick of bravado. Kay was too quiet by half, sitting with his earbuds in and a towel draped over his head, while Percy was stomping and scowling all over the place, trying to rouse the troops through sheer bluster.

Arthur sympathised with Percy. With all the adjustments they'd had to make, not only was Percy acting match captain, but he was also in charge of a back line composed of himself, Gareth, and the Corbin twins—all of seventeen and fresh up from the reserves. This in the face of one of the league's most prolific attacks, led by a man they'd once counted as one of their own.

Still, Arthur couldn’t help thinking that Percy was going about it all wrong. What the lads needed was a laugh to settle their nerves, a little forced camaraderie, not being slagged off for not bleeding red enough. Going in the stated underdog was one thing—that was a banner men could rally under—but lack of confidence could scupper a match before it had begun.

Arthur did what he could. He cranked up the music, affected his best swagger. While Percy was having his knee seen to, he roped Gwaine and Lance into a ridiculous debate about grooming products that had even the shyest of the new boys laughing at their expense. But even after the warm-up, after they'd woken their legs and got a taste of the incredible atmosphere, the mood in the dressing room still felt _off._

_Fuck it,_ Arthur thought.

It wasn't his place, but speaking up was becoming more and more of a habit (and really, Em was the only one with full gagging privileges). So he hurried through his pre-match rituals—fluids out, fluids in, lucky lippie, boot check, fresh strips of sock tape—and marched over to where Coach, Leon and Percy were huddled around Albion's team sheet.

Being careful not to jostle Leon's cane, Arthur slipped in between him and Percy, peering at the sheet.

"Bet you're wishing you'd forced Myror to give five minutes at Highcroft back in January."

Coach looked up. "Don’t _you_ start, son. Though if he were cup-tied, at least I wouldn't have to worry about you two going at one another like tomcats."

Arthur smiled. "Hey, it's not my fault the man can’t keep his feet out of his mouth." Seeing Coach's deepening glare, he added, "But I swear, I'm only here to play his arse off the pitch—a little friendly competition between strikers. Nothing personal."

"I'm glad to hear it." Coach jerked his head towards the door. "Because the officials are well aware of the history, and they want none of it. So don’t you dare give them any excuses. You're to shake hands before and be gracious after, no matter the outcome, and stay well clear otherwise."

Arthur nodded. "Understood. So I was thinking—"

"That means no banter, no stray elbows—no stray fucking _looks_ —you got that? We're here to play football, not indulge in celebrity handbags."

"Yes, Coach. And really, I'm not fussed about Myror; let him banter all he likes. But he's not the only one who doesn’t fancy our chances, and I think the lads could use a bit of a… or at least a little _less_ … no offence, Perce, but I don’t think this is the right time for the stick."

Arthur glanced up to his left. Percy's forehead was all squashy with wrinkles.

"Wart?" he said.

"Arthur, what is it?" Leon added, a split second ahead of Coach's, "Spit it out, for heaven's sake!"

Arthur cleared his throat, fixed his eyes on Coach. "I'd like to say a few words to the team before the match. If that's all right by you and the captains."

When Coach didn’t immediately respond, Arthur looked between Leon and Percy. The former gave him a searching look, but nodded, saying, "Of course."

"Yeah, go on then," Percy agreed, looking almost relieved as he clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "You know I'm crap at speeches; do my shouting on the pitch, don't I?"

"Coach?" Arthur said. The old man was no longer glaring at him, but his gaze was still very intense.

"This isn't going to involve any more dramatic revelations about your personal life, is it?"

"Er… no."

"Tirades better suited for the soap box?"

Arthur shook his head.

"Pieces of sod? Inappropriate displays of physical affection?"

Arthur caught the twinkle in Coach's eyes. He bit back a laugh and held up his hands, saying, "No tricks, Coach. And no kissing, I swear. At least not with… um, tongues and stuff. On the mouth."

With Em tucked up in one of the boxes, playing at being a wag for the day, Arthur could safely say that he no desire to snog anyone in the dressing room.

Leon tried (and failed) to cover a snigger as Coach's eyebrows soared up and away.

"I should bloody well hope not!" he snapped.

Arthur felt Percy's grip tighten on his shoulder. He stood frozen for what seemed a long moment before Coach shook his head, saying, "Very well then." He gestured towards the squad with his clipboard. "Belcourt, Fisher, care to gather the troops?"

* * *

They stood in a lumpy approximation of a circle, arms round one another's shoulders. Looking around at all the faces, Arthur was once again struck with that great heart-swelling, violin-soaring sense of rightness, of _hell fucking yes!_ that he'd felt at the PFA gala, but this time he couldn't blame it on the champagne or the warm press of Em's thigh.

Arthur knew he would never forget this squad, this _day,_ so long as he lived. It didn’t feel like the end of the season at all; hell, it didn’t feel like the end of _anything._

Arthur said none of this though. Didn’t seem right without actual violins.

Instead he nodded towards Percy across the circle, asking, "How many goals have you scored in your senior career, Perce?"

He looked a bit puzzled by the question, but his reply was prompt and proud. "Eleven."

Scoring opportunities for career centre backs were rare; like others of his ilk, Percy doted on each of his goals, could probably tell you what he'd had for breakfast and which way the wind had been blowing on the day.

Arthur turned his head to look at Elyan. "E, you?"

"Dunno, mate." Elyan smiled and shook his head. "Somewhere in the fifties, sixties? I've never been fussed with the stats."

"Well _I_ am, Mister Thomas," Coach put in dryly. "And it's sixty-one."

There was a ripple of laughter.

"Right," Arthur said, grinning at Coach. "Cheers. So here's my final question. Is there anyone here that _hasn’t_ scored at least once at this level, who hasn't provided a key pass, made a crucial block or save?" He saw the Corbin twins looking at one another, their hands inching up, and quickly added, "Apart from you two infants—I see you there, plotting to muck up my big inspirational speech."

There was more laughter, louder this time. Arthur waited a moment for it to subside, then continued, saying, "There's been a lot of talk going round about uneven talent, yeah? About us being a striving club with a few bright stars, but no depth, and surely our fairy-tale run can't last?

"Well, I'm saying that that's a bunch of shite, and you know it. It's at the heart of every training session Coach runs, every speech he gives: No one man can _ever_ be greater than eleven. Not me, not Leon or Elyan… not even Percy, though he might well count as two."

Arthur paused to acknowledge Percy's nod, then raised his voice. "And I'm also saying that every damn one of us is good enough to be here. Any one of us can be the hero—or the princess, if you like." He winked at Gwaine, who burst out laughing.

"My point being, there's no fucking script, nothing set in stone, yeah? They can spin whatever story they like about us, but in here—" Arthur lifted his arm from Leon's shoulder and tapped his own forehead. "—and _out there,_ we get to tell our own. And I say there's no cap on heroes. Or glory. And so long as we trust ourselves and play _for_ one another, there is no way we're going home _barefoot_ in a fucking _pumpkin."_

There was a brief moment of puzzled silence, then all at once Kay punched his fists in the air, Leon banged his cane on the floor, and Tristan began to clap. "Hear! Hear!" Gwaine cried, still shaking with laughter.

At that, Percy surged into the middle of the circle, shouting, "No fucking pumpkin!" The others followed suit, and the circle collapsed into a bellowing, merry, back-thumping mass of red and white.

* * *

Just before they lined up in the tunnel, Coach—who'd kept himself apart from the crush—gestured Arthur nearer.

"Not bad, son," he said. "But… Cinderella, really? Would have gone with Davey and Goliath myself, given our opponent."

Arthur shrugged. "Sorry, Coach. Guess I just really fancied saying the bit about the pumpkin."

Coach stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, that bit was decent. I'll have to remember it… for when I'm stuck coaching my daughter's under-elevens."

Arthur smiled at the dig. "Oh, I expect that'll be a while yet."

"Not if your father doesn't have more trinkets for his trophy case." Coach gave Arthur a severe look, but his tone was kind. "Well done, lad, really." He swatted Arthur with his clipboard. "Now shoo! Get out there with your team."

Arthur's mascot this time round was a spindly girl with long braids and an enormous pair of specs who stared and stared before thrusting out her chin and announcing that she was going to captain England when she grew up.

_Me too, mate. Me too,_ Arthur thought with a wry smile as they lined up for the anthem.

As the drumroll began, he looked up into the crowd, at the masses of red and white shirts dotted with neon stewards' vests. He saw all the clever (and not-so-clever) banners—his eye caught by a homemade job proclaiming, "#9 HE'S HERE HE'S QUEER VICTORY IS NEAR!"—and listened to the girl absolutely belting "God Save the Queen."

And, for what may have been the first time in his life, he felt his boyhood dream as something _actually_ youthful, sheer giddy excitement soaring up into the London sky with nothing to spoil it. No fear. No doubts. No shame.

He lowered his gaze to the Cup itself, resting on a stand not twenty yards away, ribbons fluttering in a merciful breeze, and thought, _But first…_

As he'd expressed in his article, and to Coach, he knew that there were dozens of reasons why he might never get the England call-up, let alone a shot at the senior armband. The only one he could control was his game. And his game— _this_ game—wasn't going to be one of them.

The stadium erupted at the close of the anthem. Arthur leaned down, hollering, "I'll be keeping an eye out for you," before the girl was herded away. She looked over her shoulder and gave him a solemn thumbs-up.

Then it was all a blur of nods and handshakes and smiles that didn't quite reach the eyes, that first little surge of adrenaline welling up and riding the deafening roar of the crowd. It made the colours more vivid and the peculiar blend of smells—like ripe socks and boiled meat overlain with cut grass, fresh sweat, and the odd whiff of menthol—seem impossibly fine.

Arthur breathed in deep lungfuls as he took up position in the centre circle with Tristan. He bounced from foot to foot, eyeing up the opposition. Borden was skulking in front of goal, rubbing his gloved hands together. Myror had his trademark smirk on. He and Melwas, the novice winger, looked impatient to be off, and the rest were playing it hard man, faces impassive.

Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, just listening, breathing… thinking, _Best fucking job in the world._

When he opened them, he was _in,_ on his perfect pitch, as Kilgary called it. He saw only the ball in the centre spot and the opposing goal—and in between nothing but little puzzles to be solved, thousands of glittering options spooling out across the grass.

The whistle blew, a single shrill blast. Arthur nudged the ball to Tristan and took off running.

* * *

Twelve breathless minutes later, Arthur's shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat, his white shorts were streaked with green, and the ball was in the back of Borden's net—courtesy of his left foot.

He couldn't contain a whoop of joy, but he waited until he was well away from the Albion end, headed back towards the red half of the stadium, before celebrating. He didn’t know exactly which box Em and the others were in, but in his mind's eye he pictured the squeals and backslaps, Will's amusement, Morgana's simpered, "Aww," and Em's cheeks burning with colour.

So, this time, he kissed his fingers before holding them up for the cameras. He would get Gwen to describe the exact shade of Em's ears later, say whether he'd laughed or covered his eyes or made some flip comment. If he were really embarrassed, he would make Arthur pay for it later, and that was sure to be all kinds of fun.

With the first bit of pressure off, Arthur began to relax and revel in his role as the lone target man. He'd got so used to having Gwaine to play off of, and brilliant though it was, there was something about a 4-2-3-1 that sang to Arthur, reminding him of his academy days with him at one end of the pitch and Kay at the other, claiming they ruled the world between them.

At this level, of course, the reality was that the role was more frustrating than not, depending on the flow of possession and the opposition's tactics. But Arthur could already tell that, today, it was going to be magic. The lads had pulled it together, had found their big boy pants or sense of occasion or whatever it was, and were fucking _going for it._

He saw it in Gwaine's work rate and Lance's cheeky footwork, in the way Elyan was passing with his head up, constantly scanning the pitch, the ball at his feet a seeming afterthought until someone tried to take it from him. He heard it in the bright shouts of the back line. (Not that Arthur could actually hear a word they were saying, given the noise, but it was a joy to see Kay and Percy in their element, jaws flapping away, making sure Gareth and the twins didn’t give Myror too much respect.)

Mentally, Arthur had armoured himself against all manner of possibilities, from being man-marked to within an inch of his life to Camelot conceding an early goal like they had at the Cliffs. However, he'd evidently overlooked the possibility that everything would go exactly _right,_ that the infamous football gods would rock up in Camelot red.

Calls went their way. Albion's back line kept slipping. Owain's crosses made it all the way to the far corner of the box. Down the other end, Myror's best chances slammed off Percy, the woodwork or Kay's stubborn gloves.

Arthur was having such a good time, in fact, that when the whistle blew for the half, he cursed and threw up his hands. It earned him laughter and jeers from assorted nearby fans. "Go on, son, get yourself a tea!" one old man shouted. "Ball will still be here when you get back."

Red-faced, Arthur lifted a thumb and wheeled about, jogging towards the tunnel. At this point, he half expected that squirrelly centre-back Osgar and his mates to shadow him all the way to the fucking bogs, so he took note when they suddenly veered off.

He looked round, scenting trouble… and found it. Down by the Camelot goal, Percy and Myror were standing forehead-to-forehead. Myror had a hand on Percy's chest, but Arthur couldn't tell if he was grabbing his shirt or trying to push him away.

Arthur immediately switched course, heading towards the growing knot of players, but was blocked by Lance, then flanked by Elena and the fourth official, who urged him back towards the tunnel.

"Leave it, Wart," Elena commanded.

"Listen to the lady, there's a good lad," the official said. "We'll sort it."

"Sort what? What's happened?" Arthur began, straining to see, but then Coach was there too, looking either intent on murder or just this side of an epic coronary, and Arthur let himself be led away.

He heard the sudden heave and howl of the crowd as soon as he'd entered the tunnel. He kept walking because Lance said to and Elena had a _very_ firm hand on his shoulder, but that sort of reaction meant only one thing, and it wasn't good. Something had kicked off.

* * *

It wasn't long before they learnt the details. Arthur had just torn into one of the sachets of fancy energy gel Em "snuck" into his wash bag when Percy crashed into the dressing room. He put his boot through a water bottle carrier, which smashed into a wall with an audible _crack._ Bottles spilled out and rolled across the floor.

"Sliving cunt," he yelled, his North Camelot accent thicker than ever. "Chance fucking what I wouldn’t spit on him if he were afire!" He looked around, wild-eyed; when he spotted Arthur sitting on the bench he stalked over.

"Told him right where he could shove his fucking lip. But I never _touched_ him—and the spit was only accidental like, from all the shouting."

Arthur winced. He didn’t need to ask what Myror had been saying, didn’t care to know. Whatever it was, he was certain Myror was pitching it precisely for Percy's ears.

"Tell me you didn't—"

"Only a caution." Percy gritted his teeth, curling his hands into fists. "Come to think of it, though, I wish I _had_ spat on him. Nice meaty one, right on the chinbush."

"For fuck's sake, Perce, think!" Arthur flung the sachet aside. "You're the heart of the back line, yeah? He _knows_ this, knows _you_ —it's Kanen all over again, except Myror's not thick enough to get caught!"

Percy blinked at the outburst. "I know," he said, suddenly crouching down before Arthur. He lay one massive hand on Arthur's knee. "Sorry, Wart. Had to be done. Bad enough coming from outsiders, but no one who's ever walked away from a Camelot shirt gets to talk like that about me and mine."

And what could Arthur say to that, especially with Percy peering into his eyes, his big laddish face awash in concern? He had enough trouble clearing his throat without letting on he was _this_ close to either tearing up at Percy's loyalty or punching him for being so gullible.

"Cheers, mate," he managed. "But..."

Percy grunted and patted his knee, saying, "I know. I'll watch myself. Nice and easy from here on, let you deliver the message down the other end, alright?" He offered his hand. After a heavy sigh and shake of his head, Arthur took it, letting Percy haul him to his feet.

He saw Elyan watching them from the corner of his eye. Elyan mouthed something Arthur didn’t quite catch.

"What was that, mate?" he said as Coach swept into the room, death glare at the ready.

"Pot kettle black," Elyan whispered. "Now you know how it feels, having some mad bastard battling on your behalf."

Arthur took this in silently, let it roll around in his head as Coach—with great effort, Arthur could tell—restrained himself from boxing Percy round the ears and quickly delivered his notes, laying out his plans for the second half. There would be no substitutions, not yet. They'd put in a good showing, but now they needed to follow through on all that good possession and find a second goal. And soonish.

Coach locked eyes with Arthur as he said this last. Arthur nodded. He felt Percy's hand, huge and sweaty and oddly comforting, settle on the back of his neck.

Before they walked out on the pitch, Arthur caught Elyan up in the tunnel. He leaned in, saying, "Actually, you know what? It feels pretty fucking nice."

Elyan snorted, then broke down into a full-on laugh. Arthur started to pull away as they reached the mouth of the tunnel, but Elyan grabbed his shirt and hauled him back in, saying, "Do you remember when I was coming back from injury, that scrimmage with the reserves, the Thursday massacre?"

"Oh, _yes,"_ Arthur said with relish.

"Do you remember how it started?"

Arthur nodded, grinning.

"Let's try that."

* * *

 _That_ was rushing the centre circle as soon as Myror touched the ball, then chasing down the back pass as if scenting a kill. In a panic, Osgar thumped a sloppy pass out wide. Melwas managed to collect it, but Arthur and Elyan teamed up, harrying him up and down the touchline as he scrambled to find an outlet.

Ultimately, Arthur took the ball off him, touched it to Elyan, and sprinted for all he was worth towards the Albion goal. Elyan faked coming inside a few times but stayed wide, keeping the defence from clumping up. When Arthur had decent position, Elyan angled a sweet ball into the 18-yard box. Arthur found an extra gear, pulled away from Osgar, and powered his foot through it.

It was a solid shot, on-target and with plenty of steam behind it. Unfortunately, he'd placed it straight at Borden.

Arthur managed a smile and a thumbs-up for Elyan, but he cursed himself as he caught his breath, standing doubled over with his hands on his knees. Only a bit to either side…

"Best pace yourself, boy," the keeper said with a cocky grin. He made a chivvying motion with one hand. "And get your fat arse out of my face. I'm not interested."

"Doesn’t mean you weren't admiring the view," Arthur shot back. He straightened and, ignoring Borden's derisive snort, jogged back up the pitch.

He may not have scored, but the fans were loving the effort—the noise level had only risen since the whistle, and now the chanting was in full swing—and Albion had been put on warning. Camelot weren't going to sit on their lead, and they weren't going to self-destruct. If Myror wanted this game, he'd have to take it—with _goals_ —and to hell with his sneaky whispers.

There was a good bit of back and forth after that. Percy's yellow cost them, in that he had to go easy on his challenges, but Gareth and the twins were doing an admirable job picking up the slack.

Gwaine almost caught Borden out with a power shot from distance but, again, it was placed too conveniently for the keeper. He took it and waggled a finger at Gwaine for his cheek.

Tristan sent a header just wide; Arthur had a volley parried away by the tips of Borden's fingers. It was agonising, but Arthur told himself to be patient, that they were knocking on the door, and given their luck one would eventually go in.

So of course (because how could Arthur have forgot that the football gods were the most fickle of creatures, that they always carried spare kit in the opposition's colours), that was when one of the twins got called for handball.

Arthur didn't see it, but given the honest confusion and dismay on the lad's face, he doubted it had been deliberate; Percy evidently thought so too, for he wasted no time making his feelings known to the ref.

Next thing Arthur knew there was a flash of yellow, then red. Percy's mouth dropped open and the entire stadium erupted in a funnel of sound.

"Fuck," Arthur breathed, glancing at the clock. "Fucking _hell."_ There was a good half-hour to go, a half-hour in which Camelot had to play with ten men. Albion had no excuse not to score and, one way or another, Arthur's supply chain was going to be royally fucked.

Seeing Coach's urgent gestures, he sprinted over to the touchline.

"Give me fifteen like this," Arthur said pre-emptively as he caught the water bottle Mithian slung him. "We can do it, Coach. We _can._ Gareth'll be fine running the twins. Just—"

Arthur paused to take a drink. Coach loomed near the edge of the technical area, barking, "You think I don’t know that? You're not the gaffer yet, boy, so belt up and listen!"

Arthur dropped the bottle, slack-jawed. "Sorry, I—"

"No," Coach cut in. His eyes were glinting with that mad light that—more than anything, Arthur realised—made him respect Coach as a man, a fellow footballer, and not just a lot of tidy tactics diagrams and sage advice walking round in a ridiculous jacket.

"No, you're not sorry, and I'm not asking you to be. But I _am_ asking if you're prepared to put your arse behind that mouth of yours."

"Yes, Coach," Arthur said, nodding even though he was a bit puzzled by the exchange. "Of course."

"Good. Go on then, take it. Tell—"

"Take what?"

Exasperated, Coach flung out an arm, pointing. It took Arthur a moment to notice that Percy hadn't handed the captain's armband off to Kay—the most expedient solution, as well as being the informal chain of command—but was just now stripping it off as he came towards them.

"Tell Goodfoot to shift into the centre and Du Lac to drop back and switch over to the right. Owain can pick up Melwas if need be. Let's weather the next five and see where we are, then the next five after that, and so on, alright? Keep hold of the ball, keep up our rhythm. No need for panic stations."

"Coach, I—"

"Ey up!" Percy said, grabbing Arthur's left wrist and slipping the armband over his hand. His voice was hoarse from shouting. "Belongs to you today. No question."

Arthur looked between the two men—worlds apart, but both red-faced and earnest, both putting their faith in him without blinking. He swallowed heavily, but didn't waste any more breath as Percy snugged the band up into place.

When he was done, Arthur clasped his forearm and gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Percy was having none of that. He yanked Arthur into a rough hug, saying, "Bring it home, Wart," and stalked off into the tunnel.

* * *

Arthur raced back into the thick of things, shouting to get Lance's attention and gesturing at Gareth to push in. He was aware that all eyes were on him in a new way and, contrary to expectation, it wasn't terrifying. At all. He'd spent so long trying to prove himself—to others, to his father, to _himself_ —it was a fucking relief to set that pressure aside and worry about the bigger picture.

So when Myror scored the seemingly inevitable Albion goal—earning the wrath of the Camelot fans by daring to shake a celebratory fist in the air—Arthur didn’t panic; he urged his teammates to keep the foot steady on the pedal. And when another of Owain's much-improved crosses found Arthur near the edge of the box, he didn't hesitate.

Anticipating the oncoming tackle, he shunted the ball back to Elyan, cut inside Osgar and re-collected it, slamming it towards the far corner. Borden sprang, flinging himself across the goalmouth with arms and legs outspread. The ball nicked one of his shins and deflected up into the roof of the net.

This time Arthur was mobbed by his teammates before he could even reach the touchline. There were hands everywhere—thumping his chest, grabbing his neck, patting his face—then Gwaine leapt onto his back and the whole pile went down. The fans were on their feet, roaring Arthur's name, singing his song.

"Up! Up!" Arthur shouted, scrambling to his feet, grabbing at arms and pulling. "C'mon, lads, one more. Let's put a ribbon on it!"

Albion, clearly, had other ideas. They pressed high from the restart, determined to make their man advantage felt. Camelot held strong under the assault—massive blocks by Gareth and the twins putting paid to Myror's close-range attempts—but possession became scarce. All over the pitch, tempers frayed and legs started to tire from all the chasing. Arthur felt much the same. He knew there was little chance they could survive extra time should Albion equalise. So he decided, right then and there, that it wasn't going to happen.

When Albion won a corner with a few minutes left in regulation, Arthur raced back to help defend, wading into the sea of hips and elbows, giving as good as he got. The kick came in low, hard and dangerous. Arthur stuck with his man, but lost the ball in the thicket of legs around the six-yard box. 

Suddenly, Kay hit the deck. There was a great shout from the surrounding players. Heart in throat, Arthur whipped his head round, expecting to see the ball in the back of the net.

But it wasn't there. It was, in fact, _under_ Kay, who was clutching the thing to his chest, facedown and arse in the air like a giant bald-headed baby. He'd stopped it just shy of the goal line.

Arthur laughed in relief, crowing, "You brick beauty!"

Kay's eyes snapped to meet his. He flashed a grin then scrambled up, yelling, "Go!"

Arthur didn’t wait to be told twice. He tore up the pitch, lungs, limbs—everything—striving towards Albion's goal. He glanced back after crossing the centre line. Lance had collected the ball and was hotfooting it up the right wing. Arthur veered left, pacing himself to Lance's run, then cut back inside.

Lance timed the pass beautifully, rolling the perfect come-hither ball just out in front of Arthur's feet. He latched onto it, outrunning one man, curling away from another; then he was clear through on goal, Borden backpedalling into position.

Except suddenly the keeper _wasn't_ moving away, but was rushing _forward,_ straight at Arthur.

Arthur tried to go round, flicking the ball sideways and shifting his weight mid-stride, but the next thing he knew he was tumbling across the grass, all the wind knocked out of him. He heard the whistle—the collective groan of Albion's defence and the angry shouts of the crowd—as if through a woollen blanket.

Then he sucked in a ragged breath, and the sound came roaring back full force. As did an awareness of pain, a hot sting in his right ankle and a blooming ache up his calf.

_Fuck,_ he thought, wincing. He was almost afraid to look. He'd seen all Em's pictures of ruptured Achilles, of muscles torn open by studs.

"Arthur?" Panting, Lance crouched down beside him, one hand on his shoulder. "You all right?"

"No," Arthur gritted out. He rolled over onto his stomach. "Leg. How bad is—shit, am I bleeding?"

"Um… no, mate. Hang on though."

Arthur heard Lance tell the ref he needed medical attention. Several sets of ankles converged in his sightline, just as his entire right foot and lower leg seized up with an excruciating—and excruciatingly familiar—stabbing sensation.

Arthur beat his fists on the pitch, cursing under his breath, _laughing_ even, because it bloody fucking _hurt_ but thank fuck it was only goddamn…

"Son?" the ref said.

"Wart, talk to me." Elena set down her bag and slid onto her knees in one practised movement, taking his foot between her hands.

"Cramp," Arthur wheezed, shoving at her until he could roll onto his back. "Holy shitballs, El. It _burns."_

It was mortifying, all of Wembley watching and waiting as Elena stretched his leg and he sucked down fluids. The Albion fans certainly took a dim view of it, but then their keeper had just been sent off, so they weren't in the finest of fettles. As for the Camelot fans, concern gave way to celebration over the awarded penalty and that special brand of boisterous, lager-fuelled encouragement that had Elena rolling her eyes. She was getting more than her fair share of the catcalls.

"You good?" she said, offering an arm.

Arthur grasped it and let her help haul him up. He shook his leg out, tested his weight on both ankles.

Watching his face, Elena narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, but Arthur cut her off with a hasty, "Bipedal. More or less."

_"Bipedal,_ is it now? Wonder where you learned that." She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. "Wart, he'll _end_ me if I let you play on an injury. With his bare hands. And you know I'm not talking about Coach."

"I _swear,_ El, I'll be fine in a minute. And if I'm not, you'll know about it. I'm not about to do anything stupid."

When the ref asked who'd be taking the kick, Arthur motioned Gwaine and Elyan and Lance nearer, into a tight little confab.

"Alright, who fancies it?" he said.

"Princess, you—"

"Feel like I've been kicked by a horse, and I want us to murder this in style. So who fancies it?"

Gwaine looked at Arthur askance, clearly not believing he would ever give up such an opportunity—sealing a hat trick at _Wembley_ —unless his legs had been hacked off at the knee. Elyan's expression was much the same.

Arthur blew out a frustrated breath. "Look, Borden and Myror have been whispering in the sub's ear. Myror knows all my tricks, and they're banking on my ego getting the better of me here." Seeing the ref glancing pointedly at his watch, Arthur rushed on, "And I'm saying _fuck that_ because I'm going to need what's left of my legs to climb all those bloody _steps,_ so one of you should really man up and smash this, yeah? So who—"

"Not one of us," Lance cut in, calm but insistent. "Goodfoot. They won’t have seen him take spot kicks, but he's been practising all spring, on his own time. He's up for it."

The looks on Myror and the new keeper's faces when they saw who was taking the kick were priceless. But not as priceless as the look on Gareth's when his attempt—a long, gawky run-up with an absolute wallop at the end of it—rocketed under the keeper's diving torso and landed in the back of the net.

_Fuck the football gods,_ Arthur thought gleefully. He watched Gareth's plain face transform, suffused with raw joy and a nice dollop of pride as the twins capered around him, congratulating their new hero. Camelot were now up 3-1, with only seconds to go in regulation.

Albion mounted an impressive onslaught in injury time—all five interminable bloody minutes of it—but Camelot fell to action stations with a renewed sense of purpose. By this point they were running on sheer adrenaline and the _almost_ of it, that manic, desperate anticipation of the final whistle.

When the official triple blast finally came, almost swamped by whistling from the crowd, Arthur thought he'd never heard a sweeter sound. He also thought he'd quite like to sit down and not get up again 'til August, so it was a good job Kay rushed him, caught him up and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Arthur spluttered out a protest—if he was going to be paraded around Wembley he would prefer it be Bobby Moore style, or at least not with his arse in the air—but Kay only staggered into the heart of the squad's celebrations, clutching Arthur tight and roaring, "Who owned _this_ dance, bitches?"

* * *

By the time it was their turn to climb the infamous steps, all 107 of them (and whoever had allowed that had to be some sort of sadist, all the lads agreed), Arthur had been draped in all sorts of Camelot swag, plus a pride flag the lads had solicited from the stands and pressed on him, urging him to wear _all_ his colours. He lined up behind Percy, who was already showered and dressed and beaming at being allowed to collect his medal. But Percy stepped aside and bundled him forward, saying, "You've got the armband, Wart."

Arthur demurred, but Percy was insistent, as was Leon, who used his cane to prod Arthur to the head of the queue as they began their climb. The surrounding fans laughed at his reticence and shouted words of encouragement. They hung over the barriers to shake his hand, snap photos or pat whatever parts they could reach. His legs felt like jelly, but Leon's injury gave him an excuse to pace himself (armband or no, Arthur wasn't about to go bounding ahead of their real captain).

When they reached the Royal Box, it was another blur of handshakes and smiles. And while there was nothing shabby—nothing shabby at _all_ —about being congratulated by football's top suits, including the FA chairman, the England boss, and an actual royal, the most memorable handshake was the one he didn’t get.

When Arthur passed in front of his father, Uther ignored his hand. Instead, he leaned down, grasped Arthur's shoulders and pressed a firm kiss on the top of his head.

"Class act, son," he murmured. "Well done." Then he drew back, shaking his head and giving Arthur a smile that was, for once, more eyes than teeth. "But I can't believe you passed on that penalty."

"You certain you want to join the family, mate?" Arthur quipped to Leon, looking over his shoulder. Everyone around them laughed, Uther included. " 'Cause that's what he's like. Never happy, him."

"Where do you think you got your work ethic?" Leon said mildly, earning even bigger laughs and a mouthed "Bootlicker," from Arthur.

Despite all Arthur's brazen assertions, it was a shock to finally feel the trophy in his hands. He and Leon each took a beribboned handle and stared goofily into their distorted reflections for a spellbound moment before puckering up, planting solid smacks on the Cup's bulging underbelly and hoisting it aloft.

"For Camelot!" they cried, blinded by a sudden blizzard of red and white confetti, voices all but lost in the deafening surge of noise.

It wasn't until they were milling around back down on the pitch, waiting to be herded onto the makeshift dais for the official photos, that it fully hit him.

It was over.

They'd fucking won.

He could finally _rest._

With a moan of relief, Arthur sank to his knees. When they wanted him for the photos they could bloody well roll him over and prop him up against Percy. In the meantime, the grass looked plenty soft and…

"Arthur!" 

Out of nowhere came hands, sliding beneath Arthur's armpits. Then there were arms—strong and sure, hauling him up and back into a familiar embrace—and words whispered hot in his ear. 

"Easy there, sailor. Did someone forget their energy gel?"

"Em!" Arthur staggered round, sweeping his eyes over Em's bright face. "Where did you come from? I mean, _how_ did you get down—"

Em gave a wry smile. "One foot in front of the other, genius. With a bit of a security escort. Coach ordered me to present myself for the staff photos. I _was_ with the first team most of the season."

"Right," was all Arthur could think to say, nodding, grinning. "How could I forget?"

"Indeed." Em lifted an eyebrow. "Then there's this."

Em grabbed handfuls of the flags and scarves round Arthur's neck, even catching up a bit of the medal ribbon. He pulled Arthur close, nuzzling his nose, then his lips, before sealing their mouths together in a kiss. And what a fucking kiss. All the forgotten parts of Arthur's body—the parts forgotten only because they didn’t hurt, like hands and lips and belly and cock, the skin behind his ears, the skin _all over_ —jolted to life, even as his legs turned back into mush.

When someone aimed a blast of champagne at their heads, Em pulled back only far enough to catch a mouthful. "Thank fuck, 'cause you taste absolutely disgusting," he murmured, lapping more of the stuff off Arthur's lips. "And perfect."

"Disgustingly perfect?"

"Nah. Other way round. Mmm, yeah. Now it's a bit more like… stale cheese-and-arse alcopop. De- _lish."_

Snogging was a tricky thing when both parties were snorting with laughter, but somehow they managed not to bash noses or bite one another's tongues. No one lost an eye. In the midst of the wider celebrations, they stumbled around on their own little patch of grass, Arthur realising that he'd won much more than a medal, much more than bragging rights to some shiny cup. He'd won this moment—this happiness, this glorious sense of freedom.

And when they finally came up for air, Arthur shifting his focus from Em's face to scan the thousands and thousands of faces surrounding them on all sides, he realised something else.

No one had stopped cheering.

* * *

[](http://archiveofourown.org/works/730009)

**"Disgustingly Perfect"/"Perfectly Disgusting"**

by the disgustingly talented _and_ perfect [Alby_Mangroves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Alby_Mangroves/pseuds/Alby_Mangroves) and [Mizufae.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizufae/pseuds/Mizufae)  



	53. Epilogue: The Silly Season

If anyone along Ferry Street recognised Arthur Pendragon, they didn’t make an issue of it. He got a few nods, a few friendly glances sliding over his bare torso, but for the most part people moved aside as he ran past. It was one of Arthur's favourite things about his new neighbourhood: no one gave a fuck. Everyone was too involved in their own lives—and in some cases too far gone up their own arses—to worry about his. A sweaty, half-naked man out for a jog, toting a half-dozen packs of burger buns? No big thing.

When he reached the steps leading down to the strand, Arthur paused, taking a moment to catch his breath. The day was clear and freakishly warm, even for August. Sunlight glittered off the water and the cars going over the bridge; on the opposite bank, the glass and steel towers surrounding Camelot's city centre served as mirrors for the sky. 

The Tilting Park had been expanded since the times of the old kings—infill dredged from the bottom of the river, shored up by concrete embankments and overlain with sod. Now there was a small apple orchard at one end and a play park at the other, a scattering of benches in between, and a paved path that followed the riverbank. Today it was crowded, full of picnickers, sunbathers, and others who—like Arthur and Em—had decided it was too lovely a day to confine their celebrations indoors.

However, Arthur's party immediately stood out. Percy and Bors were pretty hard to miss in any crowd, as was Ollie Blacknight, the towering midfielder brought in to replace Tristan. Uther's entourage looked entirely out of place, even in summer weight suits, and then there was Freya's hair…

Arthur tracked the bright red crest as it broke away from a knot of people and joined Em's dark mop over by the trees. Arthur smiled. He fancied a spot of revenge for earlier, for all those saved shots and the words whispered after, under the guise of a friendly handshake.

_"You can lie with your eyes all you want, gorgeous, but you forget how well I know your hips. Can see you coming from miles off."_

Kay, fascinated, had proclaimed it some sort of gay men's mind meld. Hector and Uther, who'd mostly stood there with sour faces during the kickabout (no doubt shitting bricks at seeing some of their prize assets lolloping around with the locals, on grass littered with bottle caps, no less), had actually _laughed._

"He's got your number, son," Hector had said. "Ought to make him sign a confidentiality agreement, lest he start training lads up just to thwart you."

The thought of what _that_ would involve, at least from Em's perspective, had caused Arthur to choke, practically spraying his agent with a mouthful of Hunith's summer ale.

There was a very good reason he'd volunteered to go fetch more burger buns.

* * *

Arthur jogged down the steps. Kay and Lucan—another of the new signings, and already a solid favourite amongst the lads—had assumed charge of the grills. So Arthur quietly slipped the buns to Gareth, letting him collect the hearty cheers from the hungry crowd while he circled round the orchard.

As Arthur snuck up from behind, Freya was just tapping her can of cider against the rim of Em's cup, her spiky gold bracelets jangling.

"—on collaring Sporty," Arthur overheard her say. Em snorted and took sip of his drink.

Stunned, Arthur paused.

_Collaring?_

It was something he'd been curious about after their adventures in Florida—not the theme parks and charter cruises, but the nighttime ones, the saunas and private clubs where men _thanked_ Em for being allowed to watch them play together or asked if they could be of service. For the first time Arthur had witnessed, live, the multitude of ways ordinary men fit together—not just their bodies, but their egos, their specific desires.

He still wasn't sure what he made of it all, but it had been _quite_ an education.

"Not funny, pet," Em said. _"Still_ not funny, actually. You're lucky I—"

Arthur shook himself and sprang forward, throwing an arm around each. "What's not funny?"

"Jaysus!" Em swore, beer slopping over the side of his cup.

Freya made a gagging sound and tried to pull away. "Ugh! Arthur, Will and Em _combined_ never smelt this bad."

Arthur let her go, but brandished a pit in her face. "You mean if I work up a proper lather and rub myself all over the brown sofa, you'd let us have it?"

Freya shoved at him and backed away, pointing. "That's it. Your visiting privileges are revoked, as of now. I'm having Helen change the locks."

Laughing, Arthur watched her go, jewellery glinting as she walked out of the shade. Then he turned to Em. He was wearing the sleeveless, star-spangled "Magic!" T-shirt Arthur had insisted on buying him in Orlando, despite his protests that he didn’t follow basketball. (It had been much the same in Miami, with all the other team shirts. But teal dolphins? Flaming balls? Really? As an Englishman on holiday, and a newly-minted out gay one at that, Arthur had asserted his rights to ruthlessly mock and appropriate the local culture to his own ends.)

"Didn't see me coming that time, did you, mister magic hands?"

"Guess not." Em swapped his cup to his other hand and pointedly wiped the beer-drenched one off on Arthur's bare chest—specifically on his left pec, right over Arthur's new tattoo.

"Oi! You can't…"

Em shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. "What? It's fully healed, and you're washable. Besides, I believe that bit's mine. Even says so. In _hideous_ Gothic script, I might add, but then you already— _mmpf!"_

Arthur knocked the cup from Em's hand and pulled him into a sweaty embrace, backing him up against one of the trees. "You love it," he murmured after stealing a kiss. "Maybe not the font, but the heart is sheer anatomical perfection. You said so yourself, when you first saw it; right before you broke down and _wept."_

"Arthur, I never wept."

"Did too."

"Did _not."_

"Fine, but your face went all wobbly, so I could tell you wanted to."

Em rolled his eyes. "How's the Dolma?"

Arthur grinned. He almost never got the last word in, so he felt fully justified in counting eye-rolls and subject changes as victories. On his birthday, though, he was prepared to be magnanimous and not rub it in.

"Camper than a van," he replied. "And slinging innuendo, as per usual. But then I did burst in demanding burger buns… d'you know, I think I actually _felt_ her ogling my arse on my way out?"

"I'm sure you did. Her eyes are, as Kay would say, awfully spermy."

The couple who ran Herb & Crust—Arthur and Em's ground floor retail tenant—hadn't exactly made a secret of their appreciation of the athletic male form. All of the shop assistants seemed to have walked straight off the back pages of _Studz._

Em pulled back a little. He looked Arthur up and down, his expression edging over from amused to… well, a bit like Dolma's, actually. But more predatory. "You do look like a wet dream I had once. Especially with your shorts rolled up like that. Very eighties."

"Oh really?" Arthur leaned in. He knew he looked daft, but he was determined to preserve his Florida tan as long as possible. And anything Gwaine could do…

He grasped the crests of Em's hip bones and pushed his thumbs up under the hem of his shirt. 

"Why don't you tell the birthday boy all about it; perhaps he can make it come—"

There was a sudden shout, followed by a cry of "Heads up!"

Arthur looked round just in time to see a ball bounding towards them. He turned, intending to volley it back or trap it on his chest, but Em beat him to it. He leapt in front of Arthur and plucked it out of the air.

"Em, what the—I _had_ that."

"Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing, old man. Must be—shit! No fair, that _tickles."_

While Arthur and Em struggled over the ball, Gwaine came trotting up. He was almost unrecognisable without his trademark ponytail and facial scruff (all he would say was that he'd lost a bet in Vegas, and if Percy and Elyan knew the details, they weren't sharing). What was left of his mane was pushed up off his face by a green plastic visor, and his shorts—the legs not just rolled, but actually tucked up into his pants—left little to the imagination.

He clucked his tongue and held his hands out expectantly. When the ball wasn't forthcoming—Em having clutched it to his chest, both forearms curled round it—he pouted. "Oh please, Miss, can we have our ball back?"

"What was that?" Arthur said, cupping a hand to his ear.

"I believe the man's asking to have his balls handed to him." Em elbowed Arthur in the ribs, then looked back over his shoulder and winked. "You up for a rematch?"

"I am _always_ up," Arthur intoned, subtly pressing his groin against Em's hip.

Or perhaps not so subtly, as Gwaine threw up his hands and backed away, saying, "Nah. Never mind. Thing's probably got the taint now. The big, gay—"

"Branch!" Em called brightly.

_"Fuck!"_

Arthur and Em left Gwaine rubbing the back of his head and strolled over to where the others were waiting. Seeing as Leon was lying with his head in Morgana's lap, happily stuffing his face, Arthur pulled rank as Camelot's new vice-captain (the choice had been Coach's, but he'd informed Arthur that he'd consulted Percy and the squad, and it had been unanimous).

"Let's switch it up," he declared. "New teams."

This time, Arthur made sure he and Em were on the same side.

* * *

Arthur would have happily run around in circles all afternoon so long as he had a ball at his feet, but CFC did have the Community Shield coming up on Sunday—a start-of-season charity showpiece that would see Arthur and Ravi facing off for the first time since they'd both come out. The FA were planning a whole anti-discrimination themed event out of it, and it was going to make buckets of cash for good causes. So, around three, the CFC staff banished the pros to the sidelines to rest and drink something other than beer.

Arthur handed his spot off to Gwen, gleefully anticipating all the dropped jaws when people realised that growing up the daughter of Tom "Anvil" Thomas didn't just mean Gwen fancied football (and footballers), but could actually _play._ Em swapped out as well, urging a reluctant Will to "show some Ealdor pride, mate—just stand there, look butch, and try not to get hit in the face!"

They'd gulped down several cups of water and had just upended another round on their heads when Morgana passed by, listening to her mobile. She held it away from her ear and beckoned, saying, "You two. Quit auditioning for soft core porn and come with me."

"Why?" Arthur said, refilling his cup and trickling it down the back of his neck. She held up a finger, fired off a rapid burst of French, then ended the call.

"Papa and I need to get to the airport, but there's something he wanted to give you before we left."

She lifted her chin towards the circle of camp chairs where Uther had been holding court amongst the more sedentary set.

"I thought I said no gifts," Arthur grumbled as they joined them.

"No _birthday_ gifts," Hunith said, shading her eyes as she smiled up at him. "But this is also a housewarming, yes?"

"Except without an actual house," Uther muttered.

Arthur sighed. "Father—"

"I know, I know," he said, holding up a hand. He struggled up out of the camp chair and gestured impatiently at one of his bodyguards, who handed over a stack of flat packages wrapped in crimson and gold. Uther presented the uppermost one to Arthur.

"Something I should have given you long ago, son, only I was too…" He paused, looking a bit lost before steeling himself. "Well, no need to open it here, but I do hope you can find a place for it in your new… rooms."

Morgana snorted. "Papa, please. It's bigger than the townhouse."

"It's over a _shop."_

"Technically, only one-third of it is over a shop," Em chimed in. 

Uther swallowed heavily, his eyes bulging. "Yes, well…"

Arthur shot Em a look and reached for the package, examining it with great curiosity. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had given him an _actual_ gift, something wrapped, something personal that wasn't meant to be seen by others and didn't come with a mess of strings.

"Thank you, Father. But are you sure I shouldn't…?"

"Oh for—let him open it," Hunith exclaimed, slapping her knees. "I don't know how it's done in your family, Uther, but in mine, half the fun is in watching their faces. The expressions Emmett pulled over a decade's worth of hideous jumpers from my Aunt Dilys were worth their weight in _gold."_

"Mam, don't—"

It was Em's mortified look, more than anything, that prompted Arthur to hook a finger in one corner of the paper and rip. "Oops!"

Uther blinked, then cleared his throat. "Well, in that case, Hunith, perhaps you and Mister Emrys should open yours as well." He pressed the remaining two packages into their startled hands.

"Goodness, what's mine for?" Hunith asked. "I haven't had a birthday in years."

"And you're _not_ moving in with us," Em teased, looking up from a wary inspection of his own gift. "Much as I adore you."

Uther smirked down at Hunith. "As a very wise, very _spirited_ woman once reminded me—after backing me up against a hospital urinal, I might add—what's sauce for the goose…"

Hunith laughed, her cheeks pinking up. "I'd almost forgot about that."

Arthur and Em exchanged a glance.

"I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty," Uther went on, earnest now. "But since you told me about your late husband, I've been having my people look into the club's archives. They've turned up quite a bit."

Hunith sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes going immediately to Em. He was gripping the package now, staring down at the shiny paper with parted lips and a furl between his eyebrows.

"If and when you're interested, just ring my secretary. But in the meantime, I thought you might like at least one—" Uther broke off, looking amongst the three of them impatiently. "Well, go on then. If you're going to open them, bloody open them!"

* * *

Later, back at their flat—after the cake was no more than smears of buttercream icing on towering stacks of plates; after the photos of a laughing Ygraine and a smirking Eamon had been privately toasted and set on a mantel, and a fat, smug moon hung over the river—Arthur picked up where he'd left off in the park, right before the ball (and Gwaine) had so rudely interrupted.

"I heard her, you know," Arthur said, running his hands up Em's ribs, rucking his shirt up until it was bunched beneath his armpits. This time he had Em backed up against a section of exposed brick wall, right between two of the tall, multi-paned windows.

"Heard who?"

Arthur bowed his head and kissed a lazy line across Em's chest, lingering on each nipple until it drew up into a peevish nub. "Freya. The collaring thing. What was that about?"

Em exhaled, letting his head thunk back against the wall. "That's what she calls this—you and me moving in together. 'S just her dumb idea of a lifestyle joke."

Arthur paused, listening to the familiar thump and race of Em's heart. He brought one hand to his own neck, touching the hollow at the base of his throat.

"What if it wasn't though?" He lifted his head so he could see Em properly. "I can't at work, obviously, but I'd… Em, I'm the one who insisted on tattooing your name on my fucking tit so I can have you with me in Europe. I would totally wear a collar for you at home, if that's what you need."

"Yeah?" Smiling, Em lifted a hand to Arthur's throat, stroking along the side of it with his thumb. "It's not just about _my_ needs though. It has to be… It's…" He searched Arthur's face, squeezing his neck just the tiniest bit. Then he let go, saying, _"Fuck,_ Arthur. Let's… Let's start with this 'doing house' business and take it from there, alright?"

"Sure," Arthur said quietly. He stood still for a moment, looking at Em caught between the glow of the sconce overhead and the moonlight streaming in the windows. He reminded himself what a big deal this was for Em, moving in together— _owning_ things together—the act of co-signing documents and commingling everything from sex toys to video games absolutely fucking _huge_ in the scheme of things, given his prior relationships.

"Sure," Arthur said again, smiling this time with all that he had. "But—hey, lift your arms, will you, love?"

Em did so, but slowly, his eyes never leaving Arthur's face. Arthur pulled Em's shirt up and off, tossing it behind him without looking and hoping it wouldn't end up in the fish tank. He braced his hands on the wall on either side of Em's head, feeling the rasp of brick against his palms.

"But only if doing house includes doing _me_ up against this patch of wall right here. I don't think you've had me up against this patch of wall yet."

At Arthur's insistence, they'd been "christening" the new flat ever since moving in, bit by sticky bit. At first, Em had proclaimed the idea laughable, something out of a suburban romcom. But he wasn't laughing now; now he was all bold eyes and urgent fingers, yanking at Arthur's waistband and grabbing at his hips, trying to reverse their positions.

"Maybe I've been saving it for a special occasion," Em said under his breath, gaze finally sliding from Arthur's face down his chest and belly, down to where Arthur's cock was pushing out the soft fabric of his shorts. He hadn’t bothered with pants after his earlier shower (wouldn't have bothered getting dressed at all save for the fact they'd still had company at the time). 

Arthur resisted for a moment, loving the way it made Em's nostrils flare and eyes narrow. "Lucky it's my birthday, then."

"Lucky indeed, you filthy exhibitionist. Would you just—"

Arthur gave in, let Em flip him around and press him up against the wall, his cheek resting against the cool brick.

"That's better," Em murmured, smoothing a palm down Arthur's back, gathering and gently squeezing a handful of his arse. 

"Jaysus _fuck_ darling, you are so…" Em let go for a brief moment, exhaling audibly. Then he plunged one hand into Arthur's waistband and slid the other into his hair, gripping it in that hungry, possessive way that Arthur cherished because it was all gloves-off, chest-bared, animal _Emmett,_ with none of the responsible physio or best mate about it. He crowded in close, forcing Arthur to turn his head, seeking his mouth.

And as Arthur parted his lips and surrendered to Em's eager tongue, heard—and felt—the resulting hum of satisfaction, he knew that he'd lied.

When he'd come out, he'd told the world he wanted nothing more than to keep playing in the top flight for as long as he was able, that anything less would be a betrayal of all who'd invested in him, all he'd worked for.

But the _whole_ truth (the truth Arthur hoped the world need never know) was that, if it ever came down to a choice between that and _this,_ Arthur would walk away from the league in a heartbeat.

He was excited by the pace and power of the elite game, appreciated what could be done with all the money and fame, but the sense of camaraderie? The bright, buzzing joy when he lost himself to the battle? That was what Arthur really loved about football, and that could be found anywhere, at any level, even down at the park. 

Whereas having Emmett, knowing their future was something they'd undertake together, that Arthur had _this_ outside the game to walk away _to…_

That was the fucking life treble right there.

**\0/\0/\0/\0/\0/ ~ THE END ~ \0/\0/\0/\0/\0/**

**Author's Note:**

> **More tags/warnings**
> 
> This fic contains: homophobia, racism and sexism (including graphic homophobic, racist and sexist language), lots of swearing; lots of explicit m/m sex, some of which is kinky (D/s dynamic, including bondage, gagging, spanking, and object insertion) and some of which is unprotected; lots of explicit football, some of which is clichéd; intoxication; minor violence; serious bodily injury; references to underage (14/16) sexual activity, alcohol abuse, depression, and suicide; and a happy fucking ending. With gorgeous art. And cake.
> 
> **More gratitude**
> 
> To those of you who left me comments, good-news links and love over at kmm or LJ, month after month; to **Gattodoro** for the football chants and being a force for awesome in the world; to **Tourdefierce** for all the words, especially the haiku ones and the sexy ones; to the dames over at the Perv Pack Smut Shack for the lovely rec and **sometimesmaybeme** for this: http://sometimesmaybeme.deviantart.com/art/There-Are-No-Gays-in-Football-Merthur-AU-321581920 (which I discovered wholly by accident when trying to find something else)—both of which gave me a massive boost at a time when it was much needed; to **Mizufae** and **Alby Mangroves** (yes, _again_ ) for making Arthur and Em and their disgustingly perfect joy come alive before my eyes; to **D** for all the assists; and to **A,** who first taught me how to play with the big boys. How to play _football,_ that is… Jaysus.
> 
> **Your TANGIFery?**
> 
> If this story inspires _you_ to create anything, that's absolutely brilliant! My statement on transformative works is posted [here at my profile.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/profile)
> 
>  **ETA 2015:** Singer/songwriter Aislynn made me cry (in the best way) with her song "Brave" inspired by Arthur and Em. Please check it out and give her love over on Tumblr! [Audio](http://tinylilremus.tumblr.com/post/126169636753/another-merthur-song-this-one-is-based-on) and [Lyrics](http://tinylilremus.tumblr.com/post/126169218908/brave-lyrics)
> 
> **THANK YOU FOR READING!**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art and Graphics for There Are No Gays In Football](https://archiveofourown.org/works/730009) by [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves), [Malu_3 (Grainne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3), [Mizufae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizufae/pseuds/Mizufae)
  * [Disgustingly Perfect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/770369) by [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves), [Mizufae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizufae/pseuds/Mizufae)




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